Sheele sat atop the crumbling rooftop of an abandoned house, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her oversized shears. The city below murmured with distant voices, an undercurrent of unease carried by the night breeze. Shadows flickered between lantern-lit streets, and the occasional distant shout broke the relative stillness. She had been waiting for confirmation from the Path of Peace, her mind focused on the mission at hand, when a sharp crackle buzzed in her ear.
"Sheele! You read me?!" a voice burst through her communicator. The static-heavy tone was unmistakable. Scout.
Sheele pressed a finger against the device in her ear. "I hear you. What's wrong?"
"It's bad. Real bad. Bols is dead, man. Chelsea poisoned 'im," Scout said, his breath ragged as if he had been running. "And Medic—he took Kurome. Heavy ain't takin' it well. I mean, really not well."
Sheele blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. Bols… was dead? Despite being an enemy, he had always fought with a strange sense of honor. He had a family. A life outside of war. And Kurome, captured? That would mean—no, things were escalating too quickly. The Jaegers wouldn't take this lightly. If Akame found out before they had a plan, things could spiral out of control.
"What do you mean Medic took Kurome?" she asked, gripping her shears tighter. Her normally gentle tone sharpened with urgency.
"I mean he knocked her out and hauled her off. I dunno what he's plannin', but Akame's gonna flip when she hears. Heavy's barely talkin', just carryin' Bols' body like… I dunno. Like he lost somethin' important. He ain't even yellin'. Just—silent. It's freakin' me out."
Sheele let out a slow breath, steadying herself. This was bad. If Heavy was reacting this way, it meant he had developed a connection to Bols—something rare for a soldier of his caliber. Emotional attachments in war could be dangerous, unpredictable. She had seen it before.
But there was no time to dwell on that now. The mission came first.
"Understood," she finally said. "But we still have a mission. The Path of Peace needs Bolic gone. We can't let emotions compromise that."
Scout huffed. "Yeah, well, Demo's already gearin' up to grab the bastard. We gotta move fast before things get even more screwed up."
"Agreed. Any movement from the Jaegers?"
"Nah, not yet. But that ain't gonna last. Once they find out about Kurome, they'll come down on us like a ton of bricks."
Sheele glanced down at the city once more, her mind sharpening to a singular focus. The wind brushed against her face, but it did little to cool the heat rising in her chest. The mission had just become even more urgent.
"Then let's not waste any time," she said, standing up, her pistol glinting under the moonlight.
The night air was thick with tension as Scout weaved through the shadows, his footsteps light against the temple's stone paths. He had spent the last hour maneuvering through the labyrinthine alleys and rooftops, avoiding the wandering temple guards with the ease of a seasoned runner. Every step was calculated, every breath steady as he neared the designated meeting spot.
Sheele stood beneath the branches of an old willow tree, her glasses catching the moonlight as she scanned the area with quiet vigilance. The soft rustling of leaves was the only sound between them as Scout approached. She turned to him, her calm demeanor contrasting the electric energy in the air.
"Took you long enough," Scout muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders as he came to a stop.
Sheele simply nodded, her grip tightening on Extase. Spy's words echoed in her mind—use Extase only when absolutely necessary, when backed into a corner. The thought lingered, but she shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. No words were needed—they both knew what had to be done. With one last glance at their surroundings, they disappeared into the high priest's quarters, their mission unfolding in the dead of night.
Moving through the temple's dimly lit hallways, Scout and Sheele stayed low, their movements synchronized as they slipped past patrolling guards. Scout led the way, using his agility to weave through the columns and alcoves, while Sheele followed with quiet precision. The scent of incense and old parchment filled the air, masking their presence as they reached the high priest's quarters.
The heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar, the faint glow of candlelight spilling through the gap. With a glance at Sheele, Scout nudged the door open just enough to slip inside. They moved quickly, sticking to the shadows cast by the towering shelves of sacred texts and decorative vases.
Bolic, oblivious to the chaos unfolding outside, lounged in his chamber, surrounded by lavish silks and half-eaten platters of food. His mind drifted lazily over his latest schemes, a smug smile tugging at his lips. The fools who worshipped him hung on his every word, their blind devotion ensuring his power remained unchallenged. The Path of Peace was his to mold, a tool to sway the masses and fill his coffers. The Empire allowed him his excesses, so long as he kept their interests secure.
He let out a satisfied sigh, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand. "Everything is as it should be. The faithful kneel, the Empire nods in approval, and I—" he chuckled to himself, "—I continue to thrive."
Taking a sip, he leaned back against the plush cushions. "Perhaps I should demand more from them. More offerings, more devotion. Fear is a useful tool, but true power? True power is when they love you for it. When they beg to be controlled."
His lips curled into a grin as he tapped a ringed finger against his goblet. "And those who resist? Well… they always disappear, don't they? Such a shame, truly."
He reached for a goblet of wine, swirling the deep red liquid as he contemplated his next move. There were always more dissenters to root out, more pawns to manipulate. The rebels, the weak-willed sheep clinging to foolish hope—they were nothing before the will of those who truly held power. He chuckled to himself, savoring the thought. As long as he played his role well, he would never have to fear repercussions.
The idea that anyone would dare strike against him was laughable. He was untouchable.
At least, that's what he believed—until the door creaked open.
Scout barely concealed his disgust, exchanging a look with Sheele before nodding. In a flash, Sheele's pistol, the Ambassador, gleamed in the dim light as she moved with deadly efficiency. A swift movement, the cold barrel pressed against Bolic's temple, and a muffled gasp escaped him. Before he could scream, she struck him across the head with the weapon's grip, dazing him long enough for Scout to shove a cloth into his mouth to stifle his protests.
"Damn, this guy stinks of sweat and perfume," Scout muttered, wrinkling his nose as he hoisted the man up. "No wonder people want him gone."
Sheele, unfazed, adjusted her grip on Extase. "Let's hurry. Demoman is keeping watch, but we don't have much time."
They moved swiftly through the temple's hidden corridors, dragging Bolic's struggling form toward their designated drop point. Despite his muffled screams, no one came to his rescue. Whether out of fear or simple neglect, it was clear that even those who served him wouldn't lift a finger to help.
Once outside, Sheele set to work, methodically scattering documents and forged decrees throughout the chamber. False letters, fabricated orders—all the evidence they needed to make it look like Bolic had been secretly working against the Empire. She worked with the same calm efficiency she showed in battle, every move precise and methodical.
Scout watched her for a moment before his brows furrowed. "Hey… what did this guy actually do?"
Sheele paused, adjusting her glasses. "He's a monster, Scout. He uses the Path of Peace to manipulate people, preying on their faith to control them. The Empire lets him do whatever he wants as long as he keeps them in power."
Scout frowned, shifting uncomfortably. He had fought plenty of enemies, but there was something about taking out a man like this—one who wasn't a soldier but a coward who preyed on the weak—that felt different. More personal.
His fingers clenched into fists as he eyed Bolic's trembling form. A flicker of Heavy and Medic's enraged faces flashed in his mind, their wrath barely contained when they spoke of Bols' murder. The pit of unease in his stomach deepened.
Scout crouched in the darkness, his breath slow and steady as he rifled through the stacks of documents in Bolic's private chamber. The temple halls were eerily silent, the muffled sounds of battle in the distance barely registering in his mind. He had to see it for himself—what kind of man they had just taken down. What kind of monster had earned this fate.
The deeper he read, the tighter his grip became. Letters detailing the acquisition of 'servants,' veiled under the guise of religious duty. Transactions, names, ages—far too many too young. Descriptions of their 'purification rituals,' which read more like torture than anything sacred. The more he uncovered, the harder it became to breathe. His pulse pounded in his ears, his fingers gripping the paper so tightly it crumpled beneath his touch. The words blurred in his vision, but the meaning remained crystal clear.
His fingers trembled as he turned the next page. Testimonies. Accounts from victims who had managed to escape. Some never did. Some were never even found. The horrors these people endured were written in ink, but Scout could feel the weight of their suffering pressing down on him like a stone slab. And worst of all, the Empire let it happen. Encouraged it, as long as he kept the Path of Peace under control. As long as he continued to deliver his loyal flock to the butcher's table.
Scout slammed the papers down, his body shaking with rage. The silence of the chamber was suffocating now, the weight of his own fury pressing against his ribs.
Bolic, still bound and gagged, squirmed on the floor nearby, his beady eyes darting around in fear. He let out muffled whimpers, his flabby frame trembling like a cornered rat. The high priest, stripped of his robes and power, was nothing but a pathetic, sniveling coward.
Scout stood slowly, his boots grinding against the temple floor. His breath came out ragged. "You really thought you could just get away with all this?" His voice was eerily quiet, lacking its usual cocky bravado. He took a step forward. "You thought 'cause you had some power, some title, that you could do whatever you wanted?"
Bolic shook his head frantically, his breath coming in frantic, wheezing bursts.
Scout scoffed. "Yeah? You scared now, huh? Where's all that holy talk now?" He grabbed Bolic by the collar, hauling him up just to slam him back down onto the cold stone. The impact knocked the wind from the priest's lungs, his muffled cry barely making a sound.
Then Scout's fist shot forward before he even realized it, crashing into Bolic's face. A sickening crack followed, and the priest let out a garbled scream beneath the cloth in his mouth. Scout didn't stop. His knuckles met flesh again. And again. And again. Each impact sent a fresh jolt of pain through his own hands, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
He barely saw Bolic anymore—just a shapeless, writhing mass of filth that needed to be punished. Every memory of those documents flashed through his mind. Every name. Every stolen life. The cries of the victims echoed in his ears, and Scout let them fuel him, let them drive his fury to its breaking point.
Bolic's muffled screams turned into incoherent sobs, his arms flailing, trying desperately to shield his bloated face. Scout grabbed his wrist and twisted it back, forcing a fresh scream from the priest's throat. He wanted him to feel powerless. Helpless. Just like all those innocent people had been.
"No one's comin' to save ya," Scout spat, his voice shaking with rage. "Ain't no guards, no Empire, no 'holy' bullshit to hide behind. Just you. And me."
His fist connected again, and this time, he swore he felt something shift beneath Bolic's skin. A tooth? A bone? He didn't care. He slammed the priest's head against the floor, his breath ragged, his vision a haze of red. His muscles burned, his knuckles ached, but he still wasn't done.
Heavy's face flashed in his mind. Medic's cold fury. The way they had spoken about Bols. How they had looked when vengeance had burned in their eyes. He had thought he understood it back then—the need, the rage, the desire to make things right through sheer force. But now? Now, it wasn't just something he had seen in them. It was something burning inside him, searing through his veins, setting his every nerve alight.
His breaths came out in ragged gasps, his hands shaking with the effort to hold himself back, but the anger roared like a wildfire, demanding more, demanding justice. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the sting barely registering through the storm raging in his mind. He could almost hear Heavy's words, low and edged with barely restrained fury: He was a soldier. He fought for his family.
What was Bolic? Nothing. A parasite. A coward who preyed on the weak, who twisted faith into a weapon for his own perverse indulgence. He didn't deserve mercy. He didn't deserve anything but suffering.
Scout's vision blurred with red again, his muscles tensed as he prepared to strike once more, to keep going until there was nothing left but ruin.
Now, he understood.
Bolic's whimpers turned to shrieks, his flabby arms twitching helplessly as he tried to shield himself. But Scout grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, forcing him to look him in the eyes.
"You like it when they're weak, don't ya?" Scout snarled, his voice thick with venom. "You like it when they can't fight back." He slammed Bolic's head against the floor, blood trickling from his nose. "How's it feel now?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't want one. His fists continued their brutal work, every impact sending another shock of pain through his arms, but he didn't care. He wanted this bastard to feel it. To suffer.
Blood spattered across the pristine silks of the room. The priest's groans were weak now, his body twitching from the blows, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.
A hand grabbed his wrist.
"Scout."
He turned, panting, his vision still red. Sheele stood beside him, her grip firm but not forceful. There was no fear in her eyes—just quiet understanding. She wasn't shocked. She wasn't disgusted. She just… understood.
"Our mission was to ruin him," she said gently. "Not to kill him."
Scout's breath hitched. He looked down at Bolic's broken, pathetic form. The man was barely conscious, his wheezing breaths ragged and unsteady. His swollen eyes barely stayed open, his body limp. He wouldn't last much longer if this kept up.
Slowly, the red in Scout's vision faded. The sound of his own breathing grew louder, the pounding in his chest unbearable. He yanked his arm free from Sheele's grasp and stood up, shaking the blood off his hands.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Yeah, I know."
But as he turned away, he couldn't shake the feeling that he would have gladly finished the job.
Lubbock sprinted through the temple courtyard, his breath ragged, sweat dripping from his brow. Behind him, Mez and Sten pursued relentlessly. The Rakshasa Demons were on his tail, and even with his speed and agility, he knew he couldn't outrun them forever.
"Man, you guys really don't let up!" he huffed, dodging a flurry of projectiles from Mez. The woman was graceful yet deadly, her movements fluid as she manipulated her weapons with unnerving precision. Sten, however, was a different beast. He didn't rely on trickery or range—he was a martial artist, and every strike he threw was meant to shatter bones.
Lubbock barely had time to react when Sten lunged, aiming a devastating kick toward his ribs. He twisted his body midair, narrowly avoiding the blow, but the sheer force of the wind pressure sent him tumbling. Mez closed in, ready to strike—but before she could, a blur of motion intercepted her. A massive, imposing figure stepped between them, wielding a sword that seemed to glow with an eerie light.
Demoman.
"Go, lad!" the Scotsman roared at Lubbock. "I'll be takin' it from here!"
Lubbock didn't hesitate. He knew better than to argue with a man carrying a cursed sword. He took off, leaving Mez to hesitate momentarily before following after him. That left only Demoman and Sten.
Sten cracked his knuckles, his eyes narrowing as he sized up his new opponent. "You don't belong here," he said coolly. "Step aside, and I won't break every bone in your body."
Demoman let out a bark of laughter, spinning the Eyelander in his grip. "Aye, that's cute, lad. But let's see if yer fists can match up against me blade."
Sten didn't waste time with more words. He lunged, closing the distance in an instant, his fists striking out like viper fangs. Demoman barely managed to block with his sword, the force of the blow sending vibrations through his arms. Sten was fast. Unbelievably fast. The martial artist pressed forward, weaving between Demoman's swings, his strikes targeting weak points—joints, ribs, pressure points.
Demoman grinned, despite the attacks. "Aye, ye're quick, I'll give ye that," he chuckled, dodging a palm strike aimed at his throat. "But quick don't mean shite against a proper blade!"
He swung the Eyelander in a brutal arc, forcing Sten to leap back. The ground where the blade struck cracked under the sheer force. Sten's eyes darted to the sword, noticing the unnatural way it shimmered, almost as if it was alive.
Realizing he couldn't afford to prolong this fight, Sten moved in again, fists a blur as he struck at Demoman's center mass. The Scotsman grunted, feeling the impact even through his reinforced coat. But he wasn't just a brute swinging a sword—he was a veteran of countless battles. He had fought and bled against some of the deadliest fighters alive.
And he had the Eyelander.
With a sudden, unpredictable feint, Demoman let Sten think he had an opening. The martial artist moved in for the kill—only for Demoman to twist at the last second, bringing the Eyelander up in a sweeping motion. Sten barely had time to widen his eyes before the cursed blade cleaved clean through his neck.
For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. Sten's body remained standing, his hands still curled into fists. Then, his head fell, hitting the ground with a dull thud, followed by his body collapsing moments later.
As the Eyelander pulsed, absorbing Sten's life force, Demoman felt it surge through him—a rush of power, intoxicating and exhilarating. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, but before he could even revel in his victory, a sharp cry rang through the air.
Mez struck.
With lightning-fast precision, she closed the distance between herself and Lubbock, her weapons spinning in a deadly dance. Lubbock barely managed to react, throwing up his wires to intercept her strikes. Sparks flew as her blades clashed against the thin steel threads, but Mez was relentless, pressing her advantage.
"You think you can just run?!" she hissed, her eyes burning with fury. "I'll cut you apart, piece by piece!"
Lubbock gritted his teeth. Mez was fast—faster than most opponents he'd faced. Her strikes weren't just precise; they were calculated, as if she could predict his movements before he even made them. He dodged, parried, and countered, but she kept closing in, forcing him on the defensive.
Demoman turned, his grin fading as he saw the duel unfold. "Ach, now that ain't fair," he muttered, gripping the Eyelander tighter. "Lad, ye need some help, or ye got this?"
Lubbock huffed, barely managing to block another slash. "I got this—just don't let her get any backup!"
Mez smirked. "Bold words. Let's see if you can back them up!"
She lunged again, her blades blurring in rapid succession, pushing Lubbock further toward the temple's ruined pillars. It was a duel of speed and precision—Mez's deadly close combat against Lubbock's tactical finesse. And all the while, Demoman stood by, watching with an approving glint in his eye.
Lubbock swallowed hard. "What… the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath, glancing at Demoman while still keeping his focus on Mez.
Demoman rested the massive sword on his shoulder, giving them a toothy grin. "That, laddie… is the power o' the Eyelander."
With that, he turned away, leaving Lubbock to handle Mez on his own. "Ye got this, aye? Then I'll be takin' me leave. Got me own business to handle."
Lubbock's eyes widened. "Wait, what?! You're just gonna leave me here?"
Demoman chuckled, already walking away. "Aye, ye seem like a smart lad. Figure it out."
As Demoman disappeared into the temple ruins, Lubbock cursed under his breath, his attention snapping back to Mez as she advanced with renewed fury. He braced himself for another clash—only for a shadow to pass over them.
A chilling aura filled the air.
Lubbock turned his head just in time to see a figure emerge from the darkness—Akame.
The assassin's red eyes gleamed under the moonlight, and in her hand, she held the cursed blade, Murasame. Her gaze locked onto Mez, then flickered toward the direction Demoman had gone.
The air between them was thick with tension, the kind that could be cut with a blade. And in this case, two cursed blades were already drawn.
Akame stood firm, Murasame gleaming under the moonlight, her crimson eyes locked onto Demoman's lone one. Across from her, the Scotsman tightened his grip on the Eyelander, his broad frame radiating barely restrained aggression. They were warriors, killers, forged in the heat of countless battles. But tonight, they weren't just comrades of convenience.
Tonight, they were enemies.
"You let Medic take Kurome," Akame stated, her voice devoid of emotion but heavy with accusation. "We don't know what your people plan to do with her. She's my sister."
Her grip on Murasame tightened as the memories surged back. She had found Chelsea in a pool of her own blood, her body slumped against the cold ground, breaths shallow and pained. The once-spirited assassin, always confident and teasing, was reduced to a dying whisper. Akame had rushed to her side, but even then, she had known—there was nothing she could do.
Chelsea had managed a weak smile, her fingers barely gripping Akame's arm. "Medic… took Kurome," she had whispered. "I don't know why. But if he's experimenting on her, then... we may have made things worse.…"
Her words trailed off, her energy fading with every breath. Akame had felt something tighten in her chest. Chelsea had been so sure of herself, so determined to strike down the Empire's forces, yet here she was, lying broken and helpless. And in her final moments, her last concern wasn't for herself—it was for Kurome.
"Good... I knew I could count on you..." Chelsea had murmured before her body gave out, her eyes staring into the distance, forever frozen in regret.
Akame had clenched her fists, a deep sense of failure washing over her. She had sworn to protect her comrades, to ensure they never suffered needlessly. Yet Chelsea had died alone, and now Kurome was in the hands of people she didn't trust. She refused to let another tragedy unfold. That was why she was here. That was why she had to confront Demoman.
She met his gaze again, her voice unwavering. "She's my sister. And I won't let her become another casualty."
Demoman scoffed. "Aye? And what of Bols?" His voice was rough, each word carrying an edge. "Yer assassin poisoned 'im, left 'im to rot like a dog. I fought 'im meself. He was a good man, an honest soldier. But you lot let 'im die without a second thought. Now ye have the gall to judge us?" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "And don't tell me it was 'cause he was with the Empire. We both know it ain't about sides—it's about methods. How many times have yer people killed someone who weren't swingin' a blade at ye, just 'cause it was convenient? I seen what that kind of vengeance does to a man, lass. I seen it in Heavy's eyes when he carried Bols' corpse. It hollows ye out, turns ye into somethin' ye don't recognize. And if ye ain't careful, ye'll be standin' where he is—askin' yerself if the people ye fight with are any better than the ones ye fight against."
Akame didn't flinch. "Bols was an executioner, no matter how kind he was to his family. He was part of the Empire's machine."
"And what's Kurome then?" Demoman shot back, voice rising with barely restrained fury. "She's been carved up, broken, turned into a living corpse just to keep yer war goin'. And now yer plannin' to kill her, just like that? Yer own flesh and blood?" He took a step forward, his grip tightening around the Eyelander. "Tell me, lass, how do ye sleep at night, knowin' ye plan to put yer own sister in the dirt? That's no justice—that's bloody madness! The Empire twisted her into a weapon, aye, but she ain't beyond saving. Ye really so far gone that ye'd rather put her down like a rabid dog than even try?"
Akame's crimson eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. "You think I want this?" she snapped, her voice rising for the first time. "You think I haven't spent every night thinking about it? But I know what Kurome has become. She won't stop. She can't stop." Her fingers clenched around Murasame's hilt. "She's not just my sister anymore—she's a tool of the Empire, forced to kill for them, even if it means her own suffering. She told me herself, long ago. If she ever lost control of herself, she wanted me to be the one to end it."
Demoman's expression twisted, torn between anger and something else—pity, maybe. "That's just an excuse, lass," he growled. "Ye don't kill someone ye love just 'cause it's easier than fightin' for 'em. If she's beyond savin', that's on you for givin' up on 'er, not 'cause of some twisted sense of mercy."
Akame exhaled, slow and controlled. "I don't expect you to understand. You're an outsider. But I know what must be done."
Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—hesitation, doubt, regret. It was fleeting, nearly imperceptible, but Demoman caught it. His single eye narrowed, his lips curling into a grimace.
"Aye, I figured ye'd say somethin' like that," he muttered. "Cold. Practical. Ye tell yerself it has to be done, that there ain't no other choice. But lemme ask ye this, lass—how many times have ye told yerself that before? How many times have ye looked someone in the eye, someone who maybe didn't deserve to die, and said, 'it has to be done' before ye cut 'em down?"
Akame didn't flinch, but she didn't answer either. Her silence only made Demoman press on, stepping forward, his grip tightening around the Eyelander.
"I ain't some naïve fool, Akame. I know war's ugly. I know sometimes ye gotta make the hard calls. But that ain't what this is about, is it? This ain't about necessity. It's about convenience. It's easier to tell yerself she's too far gone than to try and save 'er. Easier to cut 'er down than to fight for 'er. But lemme tell ye somethin', lass—I seen what happens when ye choose the easy way out. It don't make things better. It don't bring peace. It just leaves more bodies in the dirt and more ghosts hauntin' yer every step."
Akame's fingers twitched against Murasame's hilt, but she remained still, her crimson eyes locked onto his. She wasn't used to being questioned like this. Night Raid had always operated under the belief that their assassinations were necessary, that their work was righteous. But Demoman's words carried a weight that was difficult to ignore.
"You think you know everything," she finally said, her voice quiet but firm. "You think we don't agonize over every kill? That we don't carry the weight of our choices? Kurome is my sister. Do you have any idea what it feels like to even consider doing what I have to do? If there was another way—if I could save her—I would. But I know her better than anyone. And I know she wouldn't want to live like this. She wouldn't want to be a pawn."
Demoman shook his head, his expression dark. "Then fight for 'er!" he barked. "For bloody hell's sake, fight for 'er instead of just acceptin' that she's lost! Heavy fights for his own, even when it hurts 'im. Even when it breaks 'im. And aye, I've seen it break 'im. I ain't gonna let him go through that again, and I sure as hell ain't gonna let ye stand there and act like ye got no choice. There's always a choice, Akame. The question is—do ye have the guts to make the hard one?"
The silence between them was deafening. Neither would yield. Neither could afford to.
Then they moved.
Akame dashed forward, Murasame a black blur in the night. She aimed for Demoman's exposed side, her killing intent razor-sharp. But Demoman wasn't just some brute swinging a blade—he had seen faster opponents, deadlier ones. With a sharp pivot, he brought the Eyelander down, the cursed sword clashing against Murasame in a burst of sparks. The vibrations rattled up their arms, neither backing down as their strength collided.
Akame's eyes narrowed. His reaction speed was impressive, and more than that, he didn't hesitate. Most foes she fought hesitated, but not this man. He fought like a beast, wild yet controlled, unpredictable yet deliberate.
Demoman grinned, a wild glint in his eye. "Not bad, lass. But ye'll have to be quicker than that!"
He retaliated with a heavy, overhead swing, forcing Akame to backflip away. The ground where she stood cracked under the sheer force of the strike. His strength was monstrous—if she took a direct hit, even she wouldn't walk away unscathed. It reminded her of fighting against Incursio, the raw might behind each attack forcing her to rethink her usual strategies.
She adjusted her grip, circling him, waiting for an opening. Demoman didn't give her one. He surged forward with a sweeping arc, forcing her on the defensive. She dodged, ducked, countered with a quick slash—but he parried, knocking her blade away with sheer brute force. The Eyelander wasn't just a sword. It was an extension of his will, feeding off his kills, growing stronger with each victory. Every moment the fight dragged on, he only became more dangerous.
She tried to bait him, feinting an opening. He took it—but instead of falling for her trap, he shifted, twisting his body in an unorthodox manner, bringing the blade from an impossible angle. Akame barely managed to block, but the impact sent her skidding backward.
For the first time in a long while, she realized she couldn't just overpower her opponent.
Demoman wasn't just strong—he was experienced.
She exhaled sharply. She needed to end this quickly. Murasame's poison was absolute. If she could just land a single clean cut, it would all be over. But he wasn't making it easy.
Demoman wasn't done either. He suddenly stepped in, close enough that Murasame's reach became a liability. His free hand shot out, grabbing Akame's wrist in an iron grip. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"I get it," he muttered, his voice quieter now, though still carrying that deep, rumbling weight. "Ye fight for what ye believe in. But so do I."
A beat of silence passed. The cold night wind swept between them, carrying the weight of their unspoken thoughts. Then, he let go.
Akame didn't move. She could have struck him, could have ended this—but she didn't. Because deep down, she understood, too. Their battle wasn't just about strength. It was about conviction. And in that moment, neither of them could say they had the upper hand.
They both stepped back, lowering their weapons. The fight was over. Neither had won. But neither had lost, either.
Akame sheathed Murasame. "This isn't over."
Demoman chuckled, resting the Eyelander on his shoulder. "Aye. But it ain't endin' tonight." He gave her a grin, but there was something behind it—respect, maybe even a hint of understanding.
For now, the battle was paused. But war still loomed on the horizon.