The crisp mountain air carried the scent of blood and gunpowder as Esdeath strode through the battlefield, her piercing blue eyes scanning the wreckage with keen interest. Her forces moved carefully behind her, stepping over the twisted remains of Humanoid Danger Beasts, their bodies riddled with unfamiliar wounds. Some had been blasted apart, others cleanly punctured with precise, calculated shots. This was no ordinary slaughter. It bore none of the hallmarks of Night Raid's usual handiwork.
She knelt beside one of the creatures, gripping its lifeless arm and inspecting the texture of its skin. "These beasts… they're unnatural even for Danger Beasts," she muttered. The coloration was off, its flesh reinforced with something artificial. She pressed her fingers into its side, feeling the rigidness beneath the outer layer. "Modified? No, manufactured."
A soldier stepped forward hesitantly. "General, some of the remains seem to have mechanical components inside. It's unlike anything we've seen."
Esdeath's lips curled into a smirk. "Then whoever is behind this isn't just breeding them; they're engineering them." That alone made this mystery far more interesting. The Empire had many secrets, but this was something different. Something new.
She turned her gaze toward the horizon, her curiosity sharpening into something predatory. "Find me more of these remains. I want to know exactly who we are dealing with."
Her mind drifted to Dr. Stylish. This kind of grotesque experimentation had his signature all over it. But something didn't add up—Stylish was dead. The Jaegers had confirmed it. So why were his creations still roaming the mountains? Had someone else gained access to his research, or had they been released deliberately? And if so, by whom?
Her smirk faded slightly as she pondered the implications. If there was another force capable of utilizing Stylish's work, they could become a significant threat—or an interesting asset. Either way, she intended to uncover the truth.
She crouched beside one of the corpses, tracing a gloved finger along the charred edges of its wounds. The burn marks were strange—controlled, deliberate. Night Raid's assassins favored blades and brute force; this was something else entirely. She turned the corpse slightly, studying the pattern of damage more closely. The cauterized wounds suggested directed energy or highly controlled combustion, not the wild devastation of traditional explosives. Even the precision of the injuries indicated a method beyond what she had encountered before.
Esdeath's eyes narrowed as she examined the ground beneath the body. The soil was scorched in a controlled radius, devoid of the chaotic scattering one would expect from an uncontrolled blast. She glanced at another corpse nearby, noting a similar pattern. These kills were calculated, executed with an efficiency that reeked of professional discipline. Someone had tested their weapons here, and they had done so with deadly precision.
She stood, her mind racing through possibilities. "This isn't Night Raid's handiwork… This is something else," she murmured, standing and dusting off her gloves. Her soldiers exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to be relieved or unnerved. The existence of a new player on the battlefield, one capable of such controlled destruction, meant a shift in the game. And Esdeath thrived on uncertainty—because it always led her to something interesting.
Esdeath continued forward, her boots crunching against loose gravel as she approached the base of a towering boulder. A flicker of crimson caught her eye. Embedded in the rock, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, was the broken corpse of Syura. His body was a mangled wreck, bones jutting through torn flesh where the force of impact had snapped them like brittle twigs. Deep lacerations marred his torso, exposing raw muscle and shattered ribs, while one of his arms hung limply by a few sinewy threads. His once-arrogant sneer was frozen in a grotesque grimace, lips peeled back in a final, silent scream. Dried blood painted the rock in dark, uneven streaks, and the flies had already begun to feast on the remnants of his ruined face. Even in death, his expression carried the unmistakable weight of betrayal, as if he had never expected to meet such a gruesome fate. Esdeath's gaze lingered on his lifeless form, her smirk widening ever so slightly as she took in the brutal artistry of his demise.
A long silence stretched between her and her men as she stared at the body. Then, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "What fool would leave a corpse like this to rot?" Her voice was devoid of sorrow, tinged only with amusement and curiosity.
Her mind whirred with possibilities. If the rumors were true—if another force had entered the fray—then this was no mere coincidence. The unnatural wounds, the methodical destruction, the reckless display of Syura's demise… It suddenly clicked into place.
Syura.
He had the means, the arrogance, and the recklessness. If anyone had unleashed Dr. Stylish's experiments, it was him. The timing aligned too perfectly—Stylish had perished, yet his creations had suddenly surfaced in the mountains, running rampant without command. That was no accident, nor was it an unrelated event. The nature of their release suggested deliberate action, not mere coincidence.
Stylish's work had been left in limbo after his death, a collection of grotesque research waiting for the right—or wrong—hands to take advantage of it. Syura, with his privileged access and unchecked arrogance, was exactly the kind of person who would seize such an opportunity. He had no patience for methodical testing, no sense of control or caution. He would have seen those creations as tools for his amusement or a means to flex his authority. The thought of him carelessly unleashing them, expecting them to follow his whims, fit his character all too well.
But if that was the case, something had gone terribly wrong for him. The sheer destruction left behind, the unnatural corpses, and the bizarre weaponry damage—none of it aligned with a controlled experiment. Whatever power he thought he wielded over those creatures had turned against him. Either his arrogance blinded him to their danger, or a more calculated force had intervened and turned his own reckless decision into a fatal mistake.
The REDs. Or someone else operating in the shadows. Whoever they were, they had not only dismantled Syura's plans but had left his body on full display, as if sending a message. If that was their intent, Esdeath had received it loud and clear.
Esdeath turned on her heel, her smirk widening. "Retrieve his body," she ordered her men. "And continue tracking any unusual activity in this region. I want to know exactly who did this."
She glanced back at Syura's lifeless form, a glimmer of anticipation flickering in her icy gaze.
"Let's see where this leads."
The dim glow of lanterns flickered across the rough wooden walls of the mercenaries' temporary stronghold, casting elongated shadows as the RED team gathered around a sturdy table. The air was thick with the scent of oil, gunpowder, and sweat—a natural byproduct of their recent engagements. Weapons were set aside but still within arm's reach, a silent testament to their constant readiness. The Engineer adjusted his goggles, setting down a schematic he had been analyzing, while Sheele leaned against the table, idly running a sharpening stone along the edge of her oversized scissors. The atmosphere was calm, but there was an underlying current of tension as the meeting began.
This meeting, however, carried more weight than usual. The recent breakthroughs with the Perfector meant that their arsenal had reached a turning point. With it in their hands, they could now reproduce their original weapons at full capacity—no longer limited to jury-rigged imitations or one-off prototypes. This wasn't just an upgrade for their personal firepower; it was a revolution. If they distributed these weapons to their growing army of recruits, they wouldn't just be a ragtag band of skilled mercenaries anymore. They would be a force capable of challenging even the Empire's elite troops. The thought sent a ripple of anticipation through the gathered team. This was more than just another strategy meeting. This was the beginning of something much larger.
"Alright, let's get down to business," the Engineer started, his Southern drawl breaking the silence. He tapped the schematic, its edges smudged with soot. "Weapons test went about as well as expected. Those beasts in the mountains? Nasty sons of bitches, but they ain't too tough when you introduce 'em to the right kind of firepower."
There were a few nods of agreement around the table. Heavy grunted, crossing his massive arms. "They were strong, but not strong enough. Minigun tore them apart. Good test." He leaned forward slightly, his deep voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Armor on some of them was thick, but Sasha chewed right through. Had to adjust aim for softer spots, but once bullets start flying, they do not last long."
He cracked his knuckles before continuing. "Recoil control is getting better. More time firing, more accurate I get. Ammunition efficiency is improving too. Can kill more, reload less. And new belts Engineer made? They keep Sasha cool longer. More bullets, less overheating. Very good."
His lips curled into a rare grin. "Recruits still flinch when they hear it spin up, but soon, they will learn. The sound of Minigun? It is the sound of death. And death does not scare Heavy."
Demoman chuckled, taking a swig from his flask. "Aye, nothin' like a bit of high-explosive ordinance to make a mess o' things. Turns out, these Danger Beasts don't like bombs any more than the rest o' us." He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his one eye gleaming with mischief. "Testin' different charges gave us some interestin' results. Standard grenades work well enough, but stickies? Oh-ho, they make a right nasty mess o' things. Set a few traps, lured the beasts in, and boom! Bits an' pieces flyin' everywhere."
He leaned forward, setting his flask down with a thud. "Got a couple o' recruits showin' promise with launchers, too. One lad managed to time his shots properly—knocked a beast on its arse just as it lunged. Good instincts. Most of 'em still shoot too early, but they're learnin'. Few more drills and they'll be primed for real combat."
He let out a hearty laugh, slapping the table. "An' the new explosives Engineer cooked up? Bloody brilliant! Extra shrapnel, better spread—tears through armor like butter. We keep this up, we'll have every beast in those mountains runnin' scared!"
"And what about the recruits?" Engineer asked, shifting gears. "How are they holdin' up?"
Scout smirked, leaning back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the table. "Not bad, actually. Some of 'em are startin' to pick up the pace. Got a couple guys who might even keep up with me in a fight. Maybe."
He crossed his arms behind his head, looking pleased with himself. "Speed drills are doin' wonders. At first, they couldn't dodge worth a damn, but now? Couple of 'em are actually readin' movements better. They ain't just runnin' in a straight line anymore. Makes 'em harder to hit."
He leaned forward suddenly, eyes alight with excitement. "Oh, and hand-to-hand? We got one guy who's got some serious punchin' power. Almost knocked me off my feet the other day. Almost. Still needs to work on follow-ups, though. Can't just swing hard—gotta be smart about it."
Scout drummed his fingers on the table. "And let's talk shootin'. Recruits were awful at first—like, embarrassingly bad. But now? They're landin' shots more often, gettin' better at firin' on the move. Not quite up to my level, but hey, baby steps, right?"
"That is good," Heavy rumbled. "They learn to stand their ground. No more running like scared little babies. Now, they fight. And they do not die so fast."
"Zeir discipline is still lacking," Spy interjected, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "But I have seen improvements. They do not give away zeir positions as easily anymore."
Engineer nodded. "Well, that's progress. As for their gear, we've been makin' some serious upgrades. Had to adjust some of their weapons so they wouldn't blow their own damn hands off, but I think we're gettin' somewhere. More importantly, with the Perfector up and runnin', we're not just making improvements—we're reproducing our original loadouts. Shotguns, miniguns, explosives, even the custom-built stuff—we're bringin' it all back. Give it some time, and our boys won't just be fightin' with whatever scraps they can find. They'll be wieldin' the same kind of firepower that made us unstoppable back home. And if we start sharin' that tech with our army? Well... we won't just be a mercenary crew anymore. We'll be a damn war machine."
"Shotgun boys are getting better groupings now," Sniper added, his voice cool and even. "Had 'em practicing at range, and they ain't completely hopeless anymore. Still a ways to go before they're any good in a real fight, though."
"Rocket training is still a mess!" Soldier barked, slamming a fist on the table. "But we are MAKING PROGRESS! They have stopped firing at their own feet! A GLORIOUS VICTORY!"
Spy rolled his eyes but said nothing.
"At least the melee specialists are coming along," Bulat added. "They've started reacting to feints better, and they're not just swinging wildly anymore."
"That's good news," Engineer said, rubbing his chin. "Means we might actually have a fightin' force instead of just a bunch of cannon fodder."
Spy, standing slightly apart from the group, took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Oui, but what about ze... complications?" he inquired, eyes flickering toward Sheele and Engineer.
Sheele straightened, tucking her sharpening stone away. "We ran into someone in the mountains. A man. He was acting suspicious, and when he saw us, he tried to attack."
The Engineer nodded. "Yeah. Arrogant bastard, dressed in some fancy Imperial getup. Had a smug look on his face, like he thought we'd just roll over. We had to put him down."
A brief silence followed. The REDs were no strangers to violence, but every kill carried its own weight, its own consequences. Even in a war-torn world, some actions had ripples that spread farther than expected.
"You say he was wearin' Imperial garb?" Bulat suddenly spoke, his usually warm expression darkening.
Sheele hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
Bulat's jaw tightened. "Describe him."
Sheele exchanged a glance with Engineer before continuing. "He had short, slicked-back hair. A scar along his cheek. Talked like he owned the world. He called himself 'noble blood.' And he had a Teigu—a dangerous one. It allowed him to teleport anywhere at will, disappearing and reappearing in an instant. It made him hard to predict, but he was overconfident, reckless. He thought his ability made him invincible. He was wrong."
A cold chill settled over the room. Bulat exhaled sharply, his brow furrowing as he pieced the details together. "That man... was Syura. Honest's son."
His fists clenched at the realization, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. "I know of him. Syura wasn't just any noble brat—he was dangerous. His Teigu, Shambhala, gave him the ability to teleport anywhere at will. That made him one of the most elusive and unpredictable threats in the Empire. He used it to kidnap, torture, and kill with impunity, always slipping away before anyone could lay a hand on him. He thought himself untouchable."
Bulat's eyes darkened. "For all his power, he was nothing without it. Overconfidence was his downfall."
The weight of the revelation sank into the group like a lead bullet. The implications were immediate and dire.
"Merde..." Spy muttered under his breath, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
Scout, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly sat upright. "Wait, wait—hold up. You mean that creep we offed was some big-shot's kid?" His voice carried a mix of amusement and apprehension. "Damn. That's gonna piss off the wrong people."
Soldier, who had been quietly listening, clenched his fists. "Then we have done the world a favor! One less Imperial dog to worry about!"
Bulat wasn't so sure. "You don't understand. Honest won't just let this go. His son was his greatest pride. If he finds out Syura is dead, he'll turn the Empire inside out looking for who did it."
Heavy let out a deep sigh, his brow furrowing. "Then we must be ready. War is coming."
Engineer stroked his chin, his mind already racing through possibilities. "We need to cover our tracks. Syura went missin' in the mountains, right? Maybe we can make it look like somethin' else got 'im. One of those beasts, maybe."
Sheele frowned. "I don't think it'll be that easy. If they send someone skilled to investigate, they might put the pieces together."
Spy's smirk was humorless. "And we all know exactly who they will send."
Esdeath.
A heavy silence loomed over them. The realization was clear: whether they intended to or not, they had just lit a match near a powder keg. The Empire would come looking. Esdeath would come looking.
The question was—how long before it exploded?