The night was heavy with the scent of blood and the quiet hum of distant battle, fading into the horizon like the dying embers of a fire. The air was thick with smoke, mingling with the cold breeze that whispered through the trees, carrying with it the ghosts of the fallen. Demoman stood at the edge of the clearing, his grip firm on the hilt of the Eyelander, its cursed steel still humming with the life it had stolen. His fingers twitched against the worn handle, as though the blade itself demanded more. His one good eye scanned the battlefield, taking in the broken bodies and the remnants of a skirmish that had left more questions than answers.
Sheele stood beside him, her glasses slightly askew, her normally composed demeanor fractured by the weight of what they had done. Her usually calm expression was replaced with something more somber—regret, perhaps, or simply exhaustion. The moonlight caught the edge of Extase, still stained from the battle, a grim reminder that even the most well-executed plans came at a price. She adjusted her grip on her weapon, as if doing so would steady the storm in her mind.
Scout lingered a few paces away, his fists still clenched, the echoes of his earlier rage still fresh in his mind. His breath was unsteady, the adrenaline slowly fading but leaving something else in its wake—frustration, uncertainty. He had beaten Bolic to within an inch of his life, but it hadn't been enough. It would never be enough. He looked down at his hands, still shaking from the force of his own fury, and let out a quiet exhale before shoving them deep into his pockets, as if trying to bury his emotions along with them.
Between them, Bolic lay slumped, barely conscious, bound and gagged. His breath was labored, each wheeze a pitiful contrast to the arrogance he had once carried himself with. His fine robes were torn and stained, his once-proud demeanor stripped away, leaving only the hollow remains of a man whose sins had finally caught up with him. The weight of his crimes did not grant him dignity in his downfall. Instead, he lay there like a discarded thing, a man reduced to nothing more than a liability.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The mission was a success—Bolic had been denounced, the Path of Peace had severed their ties with the Empire, and yet, there was no triumph in their hearts. The weight of their actions hung over them, unshakable. The price had been paid in blood. Chelsea was gone. Kurome was taken by Medic. Bols was dead. And yet, none of them felt any closer to victory.
Sheele adjusted her glasses, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was quiet, but firm, a steady anchor in the chaos. "We should move. The others will be regrouping soon."
Scout exhaled sharply, kicking at a loose rock before shaking his head. "Yeah. Let's get the hell outta here."
Demoman remained still for a moment longer, his one good eye lingering on the battlefield they left behind. He had fought in countless wars, seen comrades rise and fall, and yet, the weight of this one settled deep in his chest, heavier than any he'd known before. There was something different about this fight, something that gnawed at the back of his mind like an unspoken omen. He let out a slow breath, releasing whatever thoughts had threatened to take root.
With silent agreement, the three turned their backs on the scene, their footsteps barely audible as they disappeared into the darkness. The burden they carried was not just the weight of Bolic, nor the consequences of their mission. It was the weight of choices, of victories that felt more like losses, of a war that demanded too much from all of them. And as they vanished into the night, one unspoken truth lingered between them:
There was no turning back now.
The air inside Night Raid's hideout was heavy, weighed down by the bitter taste of loss and uncertainty. The group sat in a loose circle, their usual confidence and camaraderie dulled by the grim reality of their latest mission. Each of them had seen death, endured hardship, but this time, the cost felt different—sharper, more personal. A victory had been achieved, but at what price?
Najenda sat at the head of the group, fingers steepled, her lone eye dark with contemplation. The candlelight cast long shadows on her face, making her expression unreadable. "We achieved our objective," she said, her voice measured, but laced with an unspoken weight. "The Path of Peace has publicly denounced Bolic, throwing the Empire's religious control into disarray. It will shake their influence... but at a high cost. Chelsea is gone. And Bolic's body is missing."
Silence followed. No one dared to speak, each lost in their own thoughts. The flickering candlelight swayed slightly, casting ominous shadows across the walls. The victory felt hollow. They had struck a blow against the Empire, but something felt off—like the pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.
Tatsumi clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "Chelsea's sacrifice wasn't in vain... but damn it, if only we could have done more—if we had been faster, stronger—"
"There was no way to predict how things would turn out," Najenda interrupted gently. "We all knew the risks before setting out. She knew them too."
"Doesn't make it any easier," Leone muttered, crossing her arms. Her usual carefree attitude was gone, replaced by a solemn frown. "I hate losing people."
Akame had been silent the entire time, her gaze distant. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. "Medic took Kurome."
The room tensed. All eyes turned to her.
"You're sure?" Najenda asked, though she already suspected the answer.
Akame nodded. "Chelsea told me before she... before she passed. Medic abducted her. I don't know what he wants with her, but I can't shake the feeling that we'll regret letting her go."
Lubbock exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "So, what? Do we add them to the list of people we need to watch our backs against?" His mind whirled with confusion. "I don't get it. Demoman was fighting by my side last night. We were in sync, covering each other?" He looked at Akame, his brow furrowed. "How the hell does that make sense?"
Akame's expression darkened as she met his gaze. "Because not long after fighting alongside you, he fought me. We clashed—Murasame against his cursed blade. It was because of Chelsea. He was furious that she killed Bols, as if it was some unforgivable crime. He fought with everything he had, like he was avenging a comrade rather than just an enemy soldier. He was different, relentless. He didn't hesitate."
Lubbock's eyes narrowed. "So what, they're picking sides now? We're fighting the Empire, and they're throwing themselves into personal vendettas?"
Mine scoffed, leaning back against the wall, her arms crossed tightly. "Tch. Figures. The REDs were always too unpredictable. We never should've trusted them completely."
Tatsumi shook his head. "That's not fair. They've been helping us this whole time. They've risked their lives for this fight too. They're just... different."
"Different is one thing," Lubbock countered. "Taking an Imperial assassin and running off with her is another. They're getting too involved in things they don't understand. Medic especially. He plays by a different set of rules. And that makes him dangerous."
Najenda sighed, leaning forward, her fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table. "They're still allies, but we can't ignore the warning signs. If their methods start conflicting with ours, we may need to reassess our relationship. For now, we stay cautious. We still have bigger battles ahead."
Leone huffed, shaking her head. "I get that, but let's be honest. We're barely holding together as it is. The last thing we need is more enemies."
Akame's fingers tightened around the hilt of Murasame. "Chelsea didn't deserve to die like that," she murmured. "We lost her, and they took Kurome. And now, they're making their own decisions without us. If we're not careful, this war won't just be against the Empire. It'll be against anyone who doesn't see things their way."
Tatsumi hesitated, trying to reconcile everything in his mind. The REDs had been allies from the start, but lately, they felt less like comrades and more like an unpredictable force. What were they really after? Justice? Revenge? Or something else entirely?
Susanoo, who had remained silent throughout the discussion, finally spoke, his deep voice calm yet firm. "Regardless of their motives, one thing remains clear. The war is escalating, and our enemies are not the only ones we have to be wary of."
No one could argue with that. The uneasy silence that followed spoke volumes, each of them grappling with the uncertain road ahead. Were they still on the right path? Were they losing control of the war they had fought so hard to win?
As the meeting dispersed, an unspoken understanding lingered in the air.
The war wasn't just against the Empire anymore. It was against the unknown. And that was far more terrifying.
The grand palace stood eerily silent, its vast halls devoid of the usual decadent laughter and drunken revelry. Prime Minister Honest sat alone in his chambers, his bloated fingers gripping the armrests of his throne-like chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candlelight casting long shadows over the golden ornaments and extravagant tapestries that adorned the walls. But for all the riches surrounding him, there was no comfort to be found. No amount of wealth could buy back what had been taken from him.
A single, crumpled letter lay on the polished mahogany table before him, its wax seal broken with careless force. The report from his intelligence officers had already been read, but the words still burned fresh in his mind:
Bolic denounced as a spy by the Path of Peace. Disavowed. A disgrace. Missing—his whereabouts unknown.
Honest's breath came out in ragged gasps, his lips curling into a furious snarl. His son was dead. Syura—his pride, his heir, the one who would carry on his legacy—had been slaughtered like a pig and left as a grotesque display for the world to see. His body, desecrated and abandoned in the wilderness, had been a statement—a taunt from an enemy that dared to stand against him. And now, Bolic, one of his most useful subordinates, had been exposed and erased from the Empire's control, a pawn removed from his chessboard before he could make full use of him.
It wasn't just the loss of a pawn—it was an attack. A blatant, undeniable act of war. The pieces were moving faster than he had anticipated, and for the first time in years, he felt something other than cruel amusement or gluttonous pleasure—he felt challenged.
He grabbed a goblet of wine from the table and hurled it across the room, watching as the crimson liquid splattered against the marble floor, staining it like fresh blood. The shattered goblet's shards scattered across the floor, mirroring the fracturing control of his once-unchallenged rule. His beady eyes flickered with seething rage as he clenched his teeth.
The rebels are getting bolder. First my son, now Bolic. And worst of all, the people are starting to question me.
The Path of Peace had been a useful tool, a way to keep the naive hopefuls distracted while the Empire ran its course. He had used their influence to sway the masses, ensuring they saw him as the protector of order and stability. But now, they were slipping from his grasp, planting seeds of doubt against him. Their denouncement of Bolic wasn't just a betrayal—it was a challenge to his authority. A dangerous precedent—one he could not afford.
Honest's massive form trembled as he slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the silverware and documents scattered across its surface. His mind raced with possibilities, each thought darker than the last.
If the Rebels, Night Raid, and those strange new mercenaries thought they could challenge him, they were gravely mistaken. The Empire had ruled for generations through power and fear, and he would ensure that tradition continued. If diplomacy and subterfuge had failed, then brute force would take their place. He would remind them all why he was the most powerful man in the Empire.
He turned to his nearest servant, his voice a growl laced with malice. "Summon General Esdeath immediately."
The servant hesitated for only a moment, barely enough for Honest to notice, before bowing low and rushing from the room. The Prime Minister barely acknowledged him, his mind already spinning with strategy. Esdeath was his greatest weapon, the embodiment of ruthless efficiency and sadistic pleasure. If there was anyone who could stamp out these troublesome insurgents, it was her. And if the war was to escalate, then so be it.
Honest's lips curled into a cruel, sinister grin. "If they want war... then I will give them hell."
The Empire's iron fist would soon come crashing down.
The room was heavy with silence, an oppressive weight that pressed down on the remnants of the Jaegers. What had once been an elite unit of warriors was now reduced to four—Esdeath, Run, Wave, and Seryu. The war table before them was littered with scattered reports, intelligence documents, and mission briefings, but none of them brought comfort. The loss of Bols was a wound that had not yet scabbed over, and now, another blow had struck: Kurome was missing.
Wave clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as his jaw tightened. His mind raced, his heart pounded. "This has to be a mistake," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's no way Bols is gone. And Kurome—she wouldn't just disappear like that." His ocean-blue eyes flickered between the pages of intelligence, scanning every line, every word, desperately searching for something, anything, to prove this was wrong. A cruel trick. A misinterpretation. But the words remained unchanged, an undeniable truth carved in ink, each line tightening the noose around his heart.
Run, ever the composed strategist, sighed as he sifted through the documents again, though he knew they wouldn't suddenly tell him something different. "The situation has become far more complicated. Bolic's disappearance means the Path of Peace has officially turned against the Empire. Whoever took him ensured he wouldn't be able to defend himself publicly. And with Kurome and Bols both unaccounted for, the balance of power has shifted drastically."
Esdeath stood at the head of the table, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The icy general, normally the picture of supreme confidence, was quiet for a moment, contemplating. Then, finally, her voice cut through the tension like a blade. "It's no coincidence," she said, her tone carrying an edge of certainty. "This was deliberate. Night Raid and the mercenaries aren't working as one—no, they have their own agendas. One of them eliminated Bols, and the other took Kurome. I will not let this stand."
Wave snapped his head up, eyes blazing. "Then let's go get them! We can't just sit here and let this happen!" His voice carried desperation, fury, and something dangerously close to fear. He knew Kurome—she was strong, but she was injured last they saw her. If she had been taken, then she was in danger, and the thought of her suffering somewhere alone made his blood boil.
Seryu, who had remained eerily quiet until now, suddenly slammed her hands on the table with enough force to rattle the documents. "Justice must be served! Bols was a true soldier of the Empire, and Kurome is one of us! If the rebels think they can take them without consequence, they're wrong!" Her voice was filled with fervor, the kind of zealotry that could drive a person to madness. Coro let out a low growl beside her, his body tensing as if ready to strike at unseen enemies.
Run exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "Charging in without knowing where they are will only lead to more losses. We need to be strategic."
Wave gritted his teeth, his shoulders trembling with restrained emotion. "Strategic? Kurome is out there somewhere, and we're standing around talking about plans?!" His voice cracked, and for the first time, the anguish beneath his rage was laid bare. Kurome wasn't just a teammate—she was someone he had sworn to protect. He had always kept an eye on her, knowing that despite her strength, she was carrying burdens that no one else could see. And now, she was alone.
A cold, ruthless smile curled Esdeath's lips. "And that is why we will strike with precision." Her voice was low, measured, but dripping with promise. "I will not let Bols' death be in vain. Nor will I allow anyone to think they can take what belongs to me." Her icy blue eyes gleamed with something dangerous—something sharp and unforgiving. "Night Raid and the mercenaries will learn what happens when they cross the Jaegers."
Wave took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He had no choice but to trust Esdeath. But deep inside, his heart pounded with uncertainty. He refused to believe that Bols was truly gone. And Kurome… wherever she was, she needed them. He wouldn't give up on her.
Because if they did nothing, then they were already as good as dead.
The night was heavy with silence. The air, thick with the lingering scent of blood and gunpowder, hung over them like an oppressive weight. Scout, Heavy, Demoman, and Medic sat in quiet contemplation, their expressions cast in shadow by the dim firelight. They were victors tonight, but none of them felt victorious.
Heavy sat with his hands resting on his knees, staring at nothing. Bols' lifeless body had once been a burden in his arms, but now he lay in Medic's care, revived yet comatose. Heavy wasn't sure if it was mercy or cruelty that kept Bols breathing. The man had fought with honor, with love for his family, and now—trapped in unconscious limbo—he had neither. Heavy clenched his fists but said nothing.
Scout, arms crossed tightly over his chest, fidgeted where he sat. His knuckles were still bruised from what he'd done to Bolic. He hadn't just beaten the man—he'd nearly killed him. That wasn't like him. He'd always fought with quick jabs, with speed, with wit. But back there, seeing the depths of Bolic's depravity, Scout had lost control. And the worst part? He wasn't sure if he regretted it. The faces of Heavy and Medic, the way they had looked at Bols, haunted him. Was he becoming like them? The thought made his stomach twist.
Demoman stared down at the Eyelander resting at his side, its surface reflecting the fire's glow. He had felt the surge of power again when he took Sten's head. It was intoxicating. The sword whispered in his mind, hungry for more. He had cut through many enemies, but tonight, it felt different. He wasn't sure if it was because Lubbock and Mez had witnessed the carnage or because he had felt the blade's call more strongly than ever. Either way, the unease gnawed at him.
Medic, the only one standing, looked at his own hands. Kurome, like Bols, lay motionless under his care. But unlike Bols, she was young. Too young. A girl shaped by war, turned into a weapon, and discarded when she became too broken. He had seen too many like her before—on both sides. Medic had made his decision. He would not let her go back to that battlefield. Whether or not she ever woke up, she would not fight again.
The tension thickened, an invisible chasm growing between them all.
Then, footsteps.
Engineer, Sniper, Spy, and Bulat stepped forward, their expressions a mixture of understanding and resolve. Engineer was the first to break the silence. He walked over to Medic, placing a firm but reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Ain't no easy missions in war, Doc. But sittin' here and lettin' it eat at you ain't gonna do no one any good. You did what you thought was right. That's all any of us can do."
Sniper, arms folded, gave a slow nod. "We knew what we signed up for. The alternative was letting worse people keep running the show." His voice was gruff, but there was something almost gentle in it.
Demoman let out a bitter chuckle, taking a swig from his flask. "Aye, but knowin' it doesn't make it any easier, does it?" He shook his head, staring into the fire. "I've seen war tear men apart from the inside out. Seen good lads go down paths they swore they never would. Tell me, Snipes, when does it stop? When do we get to stop bein' killers?"
Sniper was quiet for a moment, watching the flames dance. "Maybe we don't," he admitted. "Maybe there's no stopping for people like us. But that doesn't mean we let the job turn us into something we hate." He cast Demoman a sidelong glance. "You think you're slipping, mate?"
Demoman sighed, gripping the Eyelander at his side. "Dunno. Feels like the sword whispers louder with every fight. Feels like I like it more than I should."
Sniper nodded. "Then don't let it win. You're still the one holding the blade, Demo. The day it holds you? That's the day you put it down."
Demoman stared at him, then let out a deep breath. He didn't know if he could ever put the blade down. But for now, he'd keep fighting against what it wanted.
Spy took a long drag from his cigarette before speaking. "War makes monsters of all of us, mes amis. The only difference is whether we choose to recognize it." His sharp gaze fell on Scout, who refused to meet it. After a pause, Spy exhaled a slow stream of smoke and spoke again, softer this time. "You think this changes who you are, non? That one act makes you into something else." He tapped the ash from his cigarette. "But it is not one act, Scout. It is what you do after."
Scout's jaw clenched. "And what if I don't like what I did?"
Spy nodded approvingly. "Then you are not lost yet." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I have done things, Scout. Things I cannot undo. Things that haunt me. But I am still here. Still choosing who I will be. That is what matters."
Scout swallowed hard, his shoulders tensing. "But what if it keeps happenin'? What if I keep doin' things I don't like?"
Spy regarded him carefully, then flicked the spent cigarette into the dirt. "Then you learn. You adapt. You make sure you do not become the thing you fear. The moment you stop caring—that is when you are truly lost."
Scout let out a shaky breath, rubbing his knuckles. He still wasn't sure if he could accept what he had done. But for now, he listened.
Spy gave him a small nod before standing up. "Come. We have much ahead of us. Do not let the past steal your future, petit frère." With that, he walked off, leaving Scout staring into the fire, lost in thought.
Bulat, arms crossed over his broad chest, looked at Heavy. "Bols was a soldier. He knew the risks, just like we do. You carrying that guilt won't bring him back any faster." He glanced at Medic. "And neither will keeping Kurome on life support if she don't want to live."
Medic didn't answer immediately, but his grip on his gloves tightened. "She deserves the choice," he muttered, voice firm. "Not the one forced upon her by Esdeath. Not the one forced upon her by war. A real choice."
Bulat exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "And what if she wakes up and still chooses to fight? What then? Will you lock her away?"
Medic turned his gaze to the fire, his expression unreadable. "Then I will try to show her a different way," he said quietly. "I have seen war consume too many. If she wakes, I want her to see that there is more beyond the battlefield."
Bulat studied him for a long moment before nodding. "You've got a good heart, Doc. Just don't let it break over something that ain't in your control."
The fire crackled, sending embers floating into the night sky. One by one, the team drifted apart, some retreating into their own thoughts, others into restless sleep. The war was far from over, and they had won another battle. But tonight, no one felt like celebrating.
Victory had come with too high a price.