The mood was somber as Night Raid gathered in a small clearing near their hideout. A simple grave had been dug, a wooden marker placed at its head, bearing the name "Sheele" carved into its surface. The flickering glow of torches cast long shadows over the silent group, the weight of their loss pressing upon them like an unseen force. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and foliage, but it did little to ease the suffocating grief that hung over them.
Mine stood near the back, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She kept her face carefully neutral, but the longer she stared at the grave, the harder it became to suppress the turmoil churning inside her. Her fingers dug into her sleeves, her nails biting into the fabric as she struggled to keep her breathing steady. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tell them that Sheele was alive—but she couldn't. Spy's words echoed in her mind, a chilling reminder of what would happen if she dared to speak the truth. The REDs were dangerous, and she had no doubt they would follow through on their threats if she defied them. Still, the guilt gnawed at her, an unbearable weight pressing against her chest.
The others took turns offering quiet words of farewell. Akame, her expression unreadable, placed a single flower before the marker, her movements slow and deliberate. Lubbock muttered something about Sheele's kindness, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. He hesitated before stepping back, his shoulders slumping slightly. Leone clenched her fists, muttering curses at the Empire under her breath, her usual bravado tempered by the sadness in her golden eyes. Even Najenda, ever composed, exhaled a weary sigh as she took a long drag from her cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim light.
Tatsumi, standing beside her, frowned. His gaze flickered toward Mine, watching her closely. Unlike the others, she had remained silent throughout the entire farewell, her usual sharp remarks absent. Something about her seemed... off. Her silence, her rigid posture—it didn't match the fiery girl he had come to know. She had always been quick to voice her emotions, especially when angry or upset. But now, she was holding back, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes barely meeting anyone else's.
"Sheele wouldn't want us to wallow in grief," Najenda finally said, her voice steady despite the sorrow laced within it. "We have to keep moving forward. For her."
The group nodded solemnly, their resolve strengthening even as the pain remained. Lubbock clenched his fists. Leone placed a reassuring hand on Akame's shoulder. Tatsumi, however, barely heard Najenda's words. His focus was locked onto Mine.
She shifted on her feet, her hands tightening into fists before quickly relaxing again, as if she had to force herself to appear normal. It was subtle, but he noticed. He didn't say anything—yet—but the suspicion was there, growing with every passing second. Something wasn't right, and he intended to find out what.
The banners of the Empire fluttered proudly as Esdeath stepped through the grand gates of the Capital, her boots clicking against the pristine stone pathways. Her return was marked with silent reverence, soldiers parting in disciplined rows as she strode forward with a chilling grace. Despite the grandeur of the moment, the air was thick with tension—word of her recent ambush had already spread through the ranks like wildfire. Whispers of unknown combatants daring to challenge the might of the Empire slithered through the corridors of power, fueling both fear and intrigue among the higher ranks. Some saw it as a sign of weakness, a chink in the Empire's otherwise unyielding armor, but Esdeath knew better. This was no weakness. This was an opportunity.
Her mind was still ablaze with the thrill of battle as she made her way to the Imperial Palace, the corridors as vast and decadent as ever. But the moment she entered the grand audience chamber, she felt the weight of authority pressing down. Prime Minister Honest sat in his lavish chair, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he regarded her approach. Beside him, the young Emperor watched with wide, uncertain eyes, his small hands gripping the armrests of his throne. Though Esdeath had little interest in politics, she knew that every move within this palace was a game of power.
"General Esdeath," Honest greeted, his tone dripping with false pleasantry. "I've heard of your… difficulties on the battlefield. Quite the unexpected resistance, yes?"
Esdeath's lips curled into a smirk. "Hardly a difficulty, Minister. If anything, it was invigorating. These REDs are unlike any foes we've faced before. Their tactics are foreign, their weaponry unconventional. That only makes hunting them more exciting."
The Prime Minister chuckled, the folds of his bloated face jiggling with amusement. "Spoken like a true warrior. But let's not forget, General, the Empire values results. Night Raid remains a nuisance, and now we have yet another faction meddling in our affairs. I trust you will not allow them to become a larger problem?"
"You need not worry, Minister. I will crush them just as I will crush Night Raid. The more enemies I have, the greater the challenge." Her cold blue eyes flicked to the Emperor, who swallowed hard under her intense gaze. "For the glory of the Empire, of course."
The boy nodded quickly, though it was clear he barely understood the depths of the situation. Esdeath turned on her heel without another word. She had what she needed—free rein to pursue these new adversaries as she saw fit. And that was all that mattered.
At the Imperial Palace, she wasted no time assembling her new elite force. The meeting hall was dimly lit, the torches casting deep, flickering shadows that stretched across the chamber's ornate pillars. It was a grand hall, designed to inspire awe, yet Esdeath's presence alone made it feel suffocatingly small. Five figures stood before her, each distinct yet bound by their allegiance to the Empire, each chosen for their remarkable prowess and unwavering loyalty.
Wave, the young and idealistic warrior, stood rigid, his hands clenched into fists as he awaited orders. Hailing from a coastal military garrison, he had been raised with a strict code of honor and discipline, but he had yet to fully grasp the brutality of the world he had entered. His idealism clashed with the ruthless reality of the Empire's methods, and though he was eager to prove himself, he could not shake the feeling that he was stepping into something far darker than he had anticipated.
Kurome, the enigmatic assassin, leaned casually against the wall, her eerie, doll-like gaze betraying little emotion as she absentmindedly toyed with a strip of dried meat. Once a child soldier subjected to rigorous training and brutal conditioning, she had become an efficient, emotionless killer. Yet, beneath her cold exterior, there was a deep loneliness—one that she masked with quiet detachment and an insatiable hunger, both for food and for the battle she so effortlessly waged.
Bols, the masked executioner, remained silent, his massive frame a looming specter of quiet contemplation. A veteran of countless purges, he bore the burden of his actions with solemn acceptance. Unlike many in the Empire, he acknowledged the blood on his hands, carrying the weight of his sins in the form of his wife and daughter, who were the only sources of warmth in his otherwise dark world. His presence was imposing, but his heart, despite everything, still held onto the remnants of a man who wished for redemption.
Run, the enigmatic strategist, held his usual calm demeanor, observing the scene with a calculating gaze, fingers steepled in thought. He had once been an educator, a man of intellect rather than violence, but he had been drawn into the Empire's machinations by his own sense of duty. Though outwardly loyal, his mind constantly weighed every action, every consequence, always considering the possibility of change from within. He was not blind to the Empire's corruption, but he also understood the necessity of patience in the game of politics and war.
And finally, Dr. Stylish, ever flamboyant, tapped his gloved fingers together in excitement, his mind already racing with possibilities. A genius in biological engineering, his obsession with perfection had driven him to conduct countless experiments, often on unwilling subjects. His eyes gleamed behind violet-tinted glasses, the gears of his twisted intellect turning as he considered the potential of these new enemies. To him, the REDs were more than just adversaries—they were specimens waiting to be studied, dissected, and improved upon. Every battle, every encounter, was simply another step toward his grand vision of evolution through science.
Esdeath let the silence stretch, her piercing gaze sweeping over them before she spoke, her voice as cold as the tundras she once ruled. "You are the Jaegers. The Empire's sword and shield. Our enemies will fall before us, be it Night Raid or any other opposition that dares to challenge us."
Before she could continue, the sound of eager footsteps echoed through the chamber. Seryu Ubiquitous stepped forward, her expression alight with unhinged fervor. Her posture was stiff with righteousness, her hands clenched tightly at her sides as if barely restraining herself from bursting into action. Koro, her monstrous Teigu, let out a low, menacing growl beside her, matching its master's enthusiasm.
"General Esdeath! I must report—there is another evil at work!" Seryu's voice was sharp, almost breathless with indignation. The fire in her eyes burned with zealous fury.
Esdeath quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh?"
Seryu's fists trembled with conviction. "The REDs—vile, lawless invaders who attacked the Empire's forces! They are no different from Night Raid! They must be eradicated before they spread their corruption further!"
Wave furrowed his brow, exchanging a glance with Run. "Wait… REDs? Who even are these guys? Shouldn't we be focused on Night Raid?" His confusion was evident—this was the first he had heard of any force besides the infamous rebels they were meant to hunt.
Dr. Stylish let out an amused chuckle, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his wrist. "Ohhh, but this is fascinating! A new element in our grand game? Intriguing, quite intriguing! I would love to get my hands on one of these REDs. Just imagine the possibilities!" His voice dripped with excitement, already envisioning the experiments he could conduct.
Esdeath smirked, placing a hand on her hip. "It appears the battlefield is expanding." She turned to Wave, her gaze sharp and commanding. "Do not question it. The more enemies we have, the more thrilling the hunt. Surely you don't fear a little more bloodshed?"
Wave sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "If you say so… but I'd still like to know what we're dealing with."
Seryu's eyes blazed with fervent devotion. "The Jaegers will purge all evil! Night Raid and the REDs will both face judgment!" She gritted her teeth, barely able to contain her anticipation for the moment she would deliver her brand of justice.
Bols remained silent but nodded slowly. He knew that whatever came next, there would be blood. Run, on the other hand, seemed more pensive, but he did not voice any objections. He understood the nature of the Empire's game and knew better than to challenge Esdeath's decision.
Esdeath clasped her hands behind her back, taking slow steps across the hall, the echo of her boots punctuating the silence. "These REDs intrigue me. If they were capable of challenging my forces, they warrant my attention. Seryu, you will lead reconnaissance efforts. I want every scrap of information we can gather on them. Their numbers, their weapons, their tactics—everything."
Seryu saluted sharply. "Yes, General! I will ensure they do not escape judgment."
Dr. Stylish adjusted his gloves, grinning. "If I could get a live specimen, my dear General, I could work wonders. I could learn their strengths, their weaknesses… break them down to their very core!" His excitement bordered on manic.
"You'll have your chance soon enough, Stylish," Esdeath replied, her icy eyes gleaming. "For now, we gather intelligence. Then, we strike."
Kurome finally spoke, her voice quiet yet deadly. "I wonder how strong they are… I hope they don't disappoint." She took another bite of her drug-enhanced candy, letting the sweetness dissolve on her tongue. The artificial rush that followed was familiar, almost comforting—a reminder of the conditioning that had shaped her into the assassin she was today.
Once, long ago, she had known the warmth of family, of bonds that mattered. Now, all she had were orders, missions, and the battlefield. She found solace in the routine, the numbness that dulled anything that might resemble regret. Unfazed by the growing bloodlust in the room, she watched the others with detached curiosity, wondering which of them would break first when the real battle began.
Run exhaled slowly. "If they're a force independent from Night Raid, we must be careful not to underestimate them. We do not yet know their true capabilities."
Esdeath smiled, pleased with the fire in her subordinates' eyes. A storm was brewing, and she was more than ready to dance amidst the chaos. The pieces were falling into place, and soon, she would see just how much of a challenge these REDs could provide.
Sheele's senses stirred before her eyes did. A dull throbbing ran through her body, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. The air around her felt thick and stale, carrying the scent of old wood, dust, and something metallic. A faint flicker of candlelight danced across the room, casting elongated, shifting shadows along the cold stone walls. It took a moment for the fog in her mind to clear, but as soon as she tried to move, panic shot through her like ice.
She couldn't move.
Her arms were bound behind her, wrists tied tight with thick rope that bit into her skin. She shifted her legs, only to find her ankles restrained as well. She tried to part her lips, to speak—to call out—but found a gag secured around her mouth, muffling even her breathing. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs as realization sank in. This wasn't Night Raid's hideout. This wasn't anywhere familiar. And worst of all, she had no way to defend herself.
Her mind scrambled for answers. The last thing she remembered was the battle against Seryu. She had been bleeding out, her strength failing her. She had accepted her fate—or so she had thought. Yet, here she was, still breathing, still alive. But for how long?
Footsteps echoed through the room, slow and deliberate. A figure emerged from the darkness—tall, clad in a white coat that billowed as he walked. His piercing blue eyes gleamed behind round spectacles, filled with something unreadable. He knelt beside her, gloved fingers pressing lightly against her throat, his touch clinical and detached, as though she were nothing more than a specimen under his care.
"Ah, you're awake," he said, his tone unsettlingly casual. "I was wondering if you'd survive the night. You were seconds from death, you know."
Sheele stared at him, her thoughts racing. The man—no, the doctor—was unfamiliar. He wasn't part of the Empire's army, nor any rebel force she'd encountered. But the way he regarded her, with that eerie mix of curiosity and indifference, sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn't just examining her—he was assessing her, as if deciding what to do next.
She tried to shift away from him, but her restraints held firm. A soft chuckle sounded from the shadows, and before she could pinpoint its source, another presence entered the room. Unlike the doctor, this one moved with a different kind of grace—silent, calculating. A shadow peeled from the dimly lit corner, revealing a man in a dark suit, his sharp features hidden behind a balaclava and an ever-present smirk. He carried himself with effortless confidence, every movement deliberate, controlled.
"Ah, bonsoir, mademoiselle," the man drawled, his voice dripping with unsettling charm. "I trust our accommodations are to your liking?"
Sheele stiffened as the man's gloved fingers trailed along the edge of her gag before casually adjusting it. He wasn't rough, but the gesture sent a clear message: she was at their mercy.
Her breathing grew heavier. Were they with the Empire? No, that didn't feel right. They weren't soldiers, and they didn't bear the insignia of the Imperial forces. Then who were they? And why had they saved her?
The man in the suit crouched beside her, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed her restrained form. "You must have many questions," he mused, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. "Unfortunately for you, we have more important ones."
He leaned in closer, his voice dipping into something more dangerous, more demanding. "Let's get to the pressing matter at hand. Who exactly are you, and why should we keep you alive?"
Sheele's fingers twitched against the rope, her mind racing. She had survived countless battles, faced death more times than she could count—but this was different. This wasn't a battlefield. This was something far worse.
And she had no idea what was coming next.
A spark of defiance ignited within her. She inhaled deeply through her nose before narrowing her eyes at them, unwilling to cower like a helpless captive. When Spy finally pulled the gag from her mouth, she wasted no time. "Why did you save me?" she demanded. "And what do you want from me?"
Medic merely tilted his head, his expression amused yet unreadable. "You were dying," he said nonchalantly. "I do not let patients die unless I want zem to."
Spy chuckled at that, his smirk widening. "A fair question, mon cher. Let's just say we see potential in you. Perhaps you could be… useful to us."
Sheele frowned, her mind churning. Were they planning to use her as leverage? Experiment on her? Or did they truly see value in keeping her alive? The uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her conflicted. She wasn't sure if she should focus on escape or hear them out.
Spy noticed her hesitation and leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If we wanted you dead, you'd already be gone. But we are not without reason. Consider this an… opportunity."
Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and heavy, deliberate footsteps filled the room. A towering figure entered, broad and imposing. His presence alone would have been intimidating, but his expression was oddly… warm.
The massive man approached, holding a plate of food in his large hands. "You need food," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying a surprising gentleness. He crouched beside her, setting the plate down carefully. The scent of warm bread and meat reached her, making her stomach twist with hunger.
Despite everything, despite the fear and the uncertainty, Sheele hesitated. This man—whoever he was—did not seem cruel. His eyes held none of the sharp calculation of the other two men. He was different.
"Eat," he urged again, pushing the plate slightly closer to her. His deep voice, though firm, carried an odd gentleness. "You are safe… for now."
Then, without hesitation, he reached down and, with surprising care for someone of his size, began undoing the restraints binding her wrists. The ropes loosened, freeing her aching arms, though he made no move to remove the ones on her ankles just yet.
"No need for bindings," he stated simply. "You are not prisoner. You are guest."
Sheele hesitated, rubbing at the sore, reddened skin where the ropes had dug in. There was warmth in his words, but she wasn't foolish enough to trust so easily. These people had saved her life, but at what cost? Still, her body screamed for nourishment, and the smell of food was painfully tempting.
Her gaze flickered toward the plate, then back at him. "If I'm a guest," she murmured, her voice hoarse but steady, "why do I still feel like a captive?"
Sheele swallowed hard, torn between instinct and exhaustion. Right now, she needed to gather her strength if she had any hope of making it through whatever this was.
Her fate with these strange men was still unclear. But one thing was certain: she was far from free.
Night had fallen over the temporary hideout of Night Raid, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls. The air was heavy, thick with the unspoken grief that had settled over the team since Sheele's death—or rather, what they believed was her death. Mine sat on her bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, staring at the floor, her mind a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. She should be mourning alongside the others, drowning in rage and sorrow. But she couldn't. Not when she knew the truth. Not when the truth felt like a chain wrapped around her chest, suffocating her.
She clenched her fists, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to sting. The others had spent the day grieving in their own ways—Akame had trained in silence, Bulat had offered words of strength, and even Lubbock had been more subdued than usual. But Mine had barely spoken. If she opened her mouth, she wasn't sure what would come out. Sheele was alive. The REDs had her. The weight of that knowledge sat like a rock in her stomach, pressing harder with every passing hour.
"Mine," Tatsumi's voice cut through the silence, firm but careful. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Something's up with you. Ever since Sheele… left, you've been acting weird."
Mine's grip on her knees tightened, her nails pressing into the fabric of her leggings. "Weird? I lost a friend, Tatsumi. We all did. Don't try to make it about me."
Tatsumi didn't budge. "I get that. But it's not just grief, is it?" His gaze sharpened. "You've been quiet. Too quiet. Even when you were mad, you'd at least be saying something. Now, it's like you're holding back. Like there's something you want to say, but you won't."
Mine's breath hitched, but she masked it with an exaggerated sigh, forcing herself to scoff. "Maybe I just don't feel like talking. Not everyone has to be loud about their pain."
Tatsumi exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room. "That's not it. You're a terrible liar, you know that?" He studied her face carefully, waiting for her to slip up. "Something's bothering you. If there's something you want to say, you can—"
"There's nothing!" Mine snapped, a little too quickly, a little too forcefully. She regretted it instantly, her hands balling into fists on her lap. "Stop trying to read into things that aren't there. Just because I'm not throwing a tantrum doesn't mean I'm hiding something."
Tatsumi frowned, his eyes searching hers, but Mine refused to look directly at him. If she did, she knew he'd see it—the hesitation, the fear, the guilt. She couldn't risk that. She forced herself to take a deep breath and rolled her eyes for good measure. "Look, I'm just tired. Can we drop this?"
Tatsumi still looked unconvinced, but before he could push further, a knock at the doorframe broke the tense silence.
"Mine. Tatsumi," Najenda's voice carried its usual air of authority. "I need you both in the main hall. We have a mission."
Mine shot up from the bed faster than necessary, relieved for the excuse to escape this conversation. "Got it," she said, brushing past Tatsumi before he could press further. But as she walked away, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back, filled with questions he wouldn't let go of so easily.
And deep down, she knew this was only the beginning. Because the longer she kept the truth inside, the heavier it would become. And sooner or later, something was going to break.