Budo knelt before the opulent throne, his armor scuffed, his body aching from the wounds sustained in battle. The grand hall was silent, save for the ragged breaths he drew as he steadied himself. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting long shadows that danced ominously across the towering columns. Before him, Prime Minister Honest lounged in his gilded seat, his usual smug expression twisted in fury. The young Emperor, sitting just beside him, was unnervingly quiet, his golden eyes flickering with an unease he dared not voice.

"Let me get this straight, Budo," Honest began, his voice deceptively calm. "You marched on a mere mansion with an entire battalion of elite troops... and not only did you fail, but you returned with fewer than half your forces? And the enemy escaped unscathed?" The last word came out as a snarl, his plump fingers curling into a fist so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Budo, though pained, remained resolute. "Their defenses were beyond anything we anticipated. Automatic turrets, defensive emplacements, weapons we've never seen before. The moment we advanced, we were met with relentless counterfire. It was—"

"Outmatched?" Honest interrupted, voice rising. "By a bunch of mercenaries? By scum that should have been crushed under our heel? You're telling me that your so-called elite forces were nothing but target practice for those dogs?"

The general clenched his jaw, unwilling to give the Prime Minister the satisfaction of seeing him falter. "Their technology is beyond our current understanding. We suffered losses before we even reached the mansion. The moment we stepped within range, automated defenses tore through our ranks. And when we finally breached their perimeter, I was left with no choice but to unleash the full power of my Teigu, Adramelech. The mansion crumbled beneath the sheer force of my attack, reduced to nothing but smoldering ruins. Yet, despite this decisive action, we still failed to claim a single enemy casualty."

The room seemed to tremble under Honest's fury. He shot to his feet, slamming a meaty fist against the table before him. "Unacceptable! You led an entire army, and you couldn't bring back even one of their heads?!" His face was red with rage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sheer weight of his fury filled the chamber, suffocating the air itself.

The Emperor flinched at Honest's outburst but said nothing, his small hands gripping the edges of his throne. His gaze drifted toward Budo, not with anger, but with something akin to concern. The young ruler had never seen his forces so thoroughly humiliated. Even at his tender age, he understood the implications of failure on this scale.

Then, as if the humiliation wasn't enough, another official rushed into the chamber, bowing hastily before speaking. "Prime Minister, we have another report."

Honest shot him a glare but waved for him to continue, his patience hanging by a thread.

The official swallowed. "Shisuikan Fortress... has fallen. It has been seized by the REDs."

The silence that followed was deafening. Budo stiffened, but Honest's expression twisted into something even darker than before. His eyes widened, veins pulsing along his temple as his lips curled into a snarl.

"Say that again."

"Shisuikan Fortress is no longer under Imperial control. The REDs have fortified it as their own base of operations. Our scouts report that the fortress has undergone rapid fortifications. What was once a stronghold of the Empire now serves as a bastion for our enemies."

Honest trembled, his rage boiling over as he let out a guttural scream and hurled a goblet across the room, shattering it against a marble pillar. "First the mansion, and now a FORTRESS?! Do you understand what this means?! We have lost one of our strongest defensive points! The REDs now have a fully operational fortress, allowing them to resupply, reinforce, and expand their forces! This is a disaster of the highest order!"

Budo remained motionless, silently absorbing the weight of the disaster. His mind raced with the tactical consequences of such a loss. Shisuikan Fortress had been a key strategic location, guarding vital supply routes and serving as a staging ground for military operations. Without it, their grip on the region would weaken considerably.

The official hesitated before adding, "Furthermore... reports indicate that morale among the Empire's forces is beginning to falter. Some have deserted. Others... fear what the REDs are capable of. There are whispers among the ranks, Prime Minister. Some say these mercenaries are unlike any foe we've ever faced. That they fight like demons, wielding weapons and tactics we cannot comprehend. Fear is spreading, sir."

Honest slumped back into his seat, his rage now a simmering storm. His fingers tapped against the armrest, his mind racing. "We cannot let this stand. If we don't act now, the entire Empire will begin to crumble. If fear takes root, if the people see us as weak, our rule will be challenged at every turn. No... we must retaliate. We must strike back with overwhelming force."

For the first time, the Emperor found his voice, though it was barely above a whisper. "Prime Minister... what do we do now?"

Honest took a deep breath, his usual grin creeping back onto his face, though it held no humor—only malice. His beady eyes gleamed with cruel intent. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, my dear Emperor. If the dogs of war refuse to be leashed, then we must put them down. We will show them the might of the Empire. We will remind them why we have ruled for centuries."

Budo watched him carefully. He had seen that look before—on the battlefield, in the eyes of men who had nothing left to lose. It was a look of desperation masked behind arrogance, a last-ditch effort to seize control of a situation spiraling out of reach.

Honest's grip on the Empire was slipping, and he knew it. That made him unpredictable. That made him dangerous. And Budo knew all too well that when cornered animals fought back, the bloodshed was inevitable. But another worry gnawed at him—Esdeath. He was the one who suggested stationing her at Shisuikan Fortress, believing that her sheer strength would be enough to hold the stronghold against any opposition. She had agreed, yet now it had fallen.

Even for someone as powerful as her, even with her boundless confidence, there were limits. Had she been captured? Killed? The idea of her falling into enemy hands was almost unthinkable, yet the loss of the fortress suggested something had gone terribly wrong. He clenched his fists, his concern growing. Esdeath was not one to fall so easily—her power, her ruthlessness, her sheer will made her one of the most formidable warriors in the Empire. But then, a realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Had his decision been a mistake? Had something affected her ability to fight at full strength? Could it be that... she had been compromised?

Budo was well aware of Esdeath's pregnancy, and it was the very reason he had stationed her at Shisuikan Fortress in the first place. He had thought it a strategic move—a place where she could remain in control without engaging in unnecessary battles. But now, as the fortress lay in enemy hands, he realized that her condition may have played a role in her capture. If the enemy had discovered her pregnancy, would they have used it against her? Was that why she had been taken alive instead of killed? The implications were staggering.

If Esdeath had truly been defeated, then the Empire had lost not just a fortress, but one of its greatest weapons. Worse, if the REDs had her alive, they might have leverage beyond imagination.

Wave panted heavily, his muscles screaming in protest as he dropped to one knee. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the dirt beneath him. He had expected brutal training—he had been through Esdeath's merciless drills back at Mt. Fake, after all. But this... this was something else entirely.

"ON YOUR FEET, BOY!" Soldier's voice boomed across the training grounds, sharp and commanding, laced with the authority of a seasoned drill sergeant. His larger-than-life presence cast a shadow over Wave's trembling form, his eyes blazing with an intensity that left no room for hesitation. "You think the battlefield will wait for you to catch your breath? MOVE!"

The word slammed into Wave like a gunshot, jolting his already fatigued body into motion. His breath hitched, heart hammering against his ribs as pure instinct forced him to rise. The weight in his limbs screamed for reprieve, but the fire in Soldier's voice left no room for weakness."

Wave gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, barely dodging Heavy's massive fist swinging toward him. His breath was still ragged, his vision blurred with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest. The sheer force of the punch sent a gust of wind past his face, reminding him how close he had been to getting flattened.

"Too slow!" Heavy bellowed, his voice like rolling thunder. He grinned through his thick beard, eyes gleaming with amusement and approval. "You want to be strong, little fish-man? You must take hit and keep going!"

Wave barely had time to react before Heavy's palm came crashing down again. He twisted his body, narrowly escaping the impact, the ground beneath him cracking from the force. His muscles ached, but he forced himself to move, knowing that hesitation meant defeat. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to collapse, but he wouldn't—not in front of them. Not now.

Wave stumbled but recovered, raising his fists instinctively, his breath still labored from the relentless barrage. His knuckles ached, dirt clinging to his sweat-slicked skin as he forced himself to focus.

Bulat, standing to the side with arms crossed, observed him with a critical gaze. "Wave, you're relying too much on brute force," he called out, his voice firm yet instructive. "You need control, precision! Strength without purpose is just wasted energy. A wild punch is useless if it doesn't land where it needs to."

Gasping, Wave charged again. He dodged Soldier's incoming strike but barely managed to block a follow-up from Heavy. The sheer weight behind the blow sent him skidding back several feet. His bones rattled from the impact, but he remained standing.

"Good! You are not dead yet!" Heavy laughed heartily.

Wave wanted to curse at him, but there was something different about this training. Esdeath's methods had been cruel, designed to break men and weed out the weak. This? This was designed to forge strength—not just physical, but something deeper.

Wave recalled those days under Esdeath's command—the grueling trials, the bone-chilling cold of her presence, the way her punishments had been laced with an almost casual cruelty. Her training was never about making soldiers stronger; it was about breaking them, molding them into unquestioning tools of war through relentless suffering. Here, there was no sadism, no arbitrary cruelty. Every grueling exercise, every strike, had a purpose: to strengthen, to sharpen, to prepare him for the battles ahead. This was not about blind obedience—it was about survival, about becoming something greater than just a weapon.

He clenched his fists. If he was going to survive this war, he had to learn.

Soldier grinned, watching the determination flicker in Wave's eyes. "Now THAT is the look of a warrior! Again!"

Wave took a deep breath, steadied his stance, and charged forward once more.

Run sat at a long wooden table in the Intelligence Facility, his fingers tracing absent patterns over the map sprawled before him. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the flickering glow of a lantern overhead, casting long shadows across the stacks of reports and reconnaissance files. The air smelled faintly of ink and parchment, a stark contrast to the blood and steel he had once been so accustomed to.

Across from him, Sheele adjusted her glasses and skimmed through a folder. Unlike him, she seemed at ease, as if discussing military intelligence was just another casual conversation. Her expression was gentle yet focused, a stark contrast to the hardened mercenaries outside these walls. There was an undeniable warmth in the way she carried herself, something that felt rare in a place filled with battle-worn soldiers.

"So, what do you think?" she asked, glancing up. "Any potential survivors among the Jaegers?"

Run exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "If there are, they're either in hiding or already planning their next move. Esdeath, Wave, and I were the last ones standing before everything fell apart. Now, Esdeath is in chains, Wave is undergoing hellish training, and I'm…here." He gestured vaguely around the room, as if still coming to terms with his own situation.

"It's a new start," Sheele said with a small smile.

Run scoffed, shaking his head. "A new start, huh? I never thought I'd be here. Working with rebels. Learning from assassins. Taking orders from mercenaries. If you had told me this a few months ago, I would have laughed in your face."

Sheele tilted her head slightly. "Do you still think we're just rebels and assassins?"

Run hesitated, his fingers curling into a loose fist. "The REDs… They're not what I expected. The Empire painted them as mindless brutes, but they're anything but. They're ruthless, yes, but they're structured, disciplined. It's a level of organization I never saw in the Empire, even among the Jaegers. And they're winning because of it."

Sheele nodded. "They have a purpose, just like you do. The difference is, they choose to fight for it on their own terms."

Run sighed, rubbing his temples. "And what about redemption? Do you really think that's possible for someone like me?"

Sheele leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "Redemption isn't given, Run. It's earned. You made choices that led you here. Now you have the chance to make new ones. It won't be easy, and not everyone will trust you right away. But if you really want it, you have to prove it. Not just to them, but to yourself."

Run was silent for a long moment, his thoughts tangled in uncertainty. Finally, he nodded. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Sheele smiled. "No, you do. You always do."

She paused for a moment before tilting her head. "Run, can I ask you something? What made you join the Jaegers in the first place? You don't strike me as someone who would willingly support the Empire's cruelty."

Run's expression darkened, his gaze dropping to the table. He hesitated before answering. "I wanted change. Before all this, I was a teacher. I believed in guiding the next generation, giving them hope for a better future. But then, the Empire came and destroyed my entire village, slaughtering my students like they were nothing. I joined the Jaegers because I thought I could change the system from within, make sure no one else had to suffer like they did. But…I was naïve. The Empire was far too rotten to fix."

Sheele listened quietly, her expression softening. "You wanted to protect people in your own way," she said gently. "Even if it led you down the wrong path."

Run exhaled, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. And now, I wonder if I can ever make things right again. But, Sheele… what was your past like? Why did you join Night Raid in the first place, and what made you decide to fight for them before moving to the REDs?"

Sheele adjusted her glasses, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the folder in front of her. "My past…? It's not really an inspiring story," she admitted. "I used to be a maid in the Capital. I was never really good at much, always clumsy, always forgetful… The only thing I was good at was killing."

Run blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. "That's… a strange thing to be good at."

Sheele continued, her tone calm yet distant. "One day, a group of thugs attacked my best friend. I fought back, and I killed them all. But instead of justice, the authorities branded me a murderer. My friend tried to defend me, but in the end, she abandoned me to save herself. That's when I realized—the Empire didn't care about what was right or wrong. It only cared about power."

She exhaled, her gaze distant. "I had nowhere to go until Night Raid found me. They gave me a purpose, a way to use my skills for something that mattered. I wanted to protect people, to make sure others didn't have to suffer under the Empire's cruelty like I did. That's why I fought for Night Raid."

Run was quiet, processing her words. "And now? What made you choose to stay with the REDs?"

Sheele offered him a small smile. "Night Raid fights from the shadows, striking at key figures to bring down the Empire. But the REDs… they're different. They're bringing change on a much bigger scale. Infrastructure, alliances, military reform—it's not just assassinations, it's a full-blown revolution. I saw another opportunity to keep fighting for what I believe in. Only this time, with a new kind of family."

Run leaned back, considering her words. "So, in a way, we're not so different. We both wanted to protect people. We just ended up on different sides."

Sheele nodded. "But now, we have a chance to fight together, for something better."

The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as Medic carefully examined Kurome, his sharp eyes scanning the readings on his clipboard. She sat quietly, her gaze distant, barely reacting as he checked her vitals. The faint hum of machinery filled the otherwise silent medical ward, save for the occasional scratch of pen on paper. Medic muttered to himself in German,

"Interessant... Ihr Körper klammert sich an die Kraft wie ein Ertrinkender an einen Ast. Es ist faszinierend, aber auch besorgniserregend. Ihr Kreislauf kämpft darum, die Anomalien auszugleichen, aber ihr Körper ist nicht dafür geschaffen, eine so starke Belastung auf Dauer zu ertragen. Wenn ich nicht vorsichtig bin, wird sie bald auseinanderfallen, oder schlimmer noch, sie könnte sich selbst irreparabel schädigen.

("Interesting... Her body clings to the power like a drowning man to a branch. It is fascinating, yet also concerning. Her circulation struggles to compensate for the anomalies, but her body is not built to withstand such a heavy strain indefinitely. If I'm not careful, she will soon fall apart—or worse, she might cause irreversible damage to herself.")"

He noted the peculiarities of her Teigu-induced condition, a dependency far beyond ordinary fatigue. It was something that intrigued him, and yet, there was an underlying concern even he wouldn't voice aloud.

"You are stabilizing," Medic finally spoke, his voice clinical yet oddly reassuring. "But ze strain from your Teigu—it is not so simple. Your body is addicted to its power."

Kurome's eyes flickered slightly, but she remained silent.

"You do not vant to talk?" Medic pressed, tilting his head. "Or perhaps you do not trust me?" His lips curled in amusement, but there was an underlying curiosity in his tone.

"I don't trust anyone," Kurome finally muttered. "Especially not an enemy doctor."

Medic chuckled. "Ah, but I am not just any doctor. I am ze best! And you are alive because of me. Maybe one day you vill see zat not all enemies remain enemies."

Kurome scoffed softly but said nothing more. Medic simply smirked and returned to his notes, unfazed by her coldness. He had seen worse patients before—and somehow, he had a feeling she would come around in time.

Kurome's attention, however, drifted beyond the confines of her own ailments. Across the room, beyond the line of empty medical cots, stood Heavy. The massive man, his usually imposing frame hunched slightly, loomed over a still body. Bols lay in a coma, his breaths shallow, his face pale against the stark white of the hospital sheets. The life he once exuded—his warmth, his gentle nature—was now reduced to the rhythmic beeping of the machines sustaining him.

Kurome observed in silence as Heavy reached out, placing a massive hand over Bols' shoulder. His fingers curled slightly, almost hesitant, as if the mere act of touching a wounded comrade would somehow will him back to consciousness. Then, Heavy muttered something in Russian, his deep voice softer than Kurome had ever heard before. She couldn't understand the words, but the weight of emotion behind them was unmistakable.

"Prosti menya, brat..." Heavy whispered. "Ya dolzhen byl spasti tebya ran'she..." ("Forgive me, brother... I should have saved you sooner...")

Kurome's eyes narrowed slightly, absorbing the rare vulnerability in his tone. It was not just regret—it was personal failure. Heavy, a man she had viewed as nothing more than a relentless warrior, now stood before her, burdened with grief. He cared.

"You regret not saving him?" Kurome's voice broke the quiet, her usual monotone tinged with curiosity.

Heavy exhaled a slow breath before glancing at her. "Da. He fought like soldier. He deserved better."

Kurome hesitated before speaking. "In war, people die. That's just how it is."

Heavy's brow furrowed slightly. "Da... But does not mean we must forget them."

She had seen death many times. Had caused it, even more. And yet, to witness an enemy display such unguarded sorrow for a fallen comrade—it shook something within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, the lines she had so firmly drawn between friend and foe weren't as clear as she had once believed.

Her grip tightened slightly. If she could waver in her perception of Heavy, then what about Akame? Her sister, the one she was meant to kill—the one she had sworn to kill. The thought lingered uncomfortably, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She had been trained, conditioned, to eliminate traitors, and yet, was Akame truly a traitor? Or had she simply found a different path, one that Kurome had been too afraid to take?

She clenched her fists, frustration welling within her. Did she want to kill Akame because she believed it was the right thing to do, or because it was what was expected of her? And if she did hesitate when the moment came, would that hesitation cost her everything?

Memories of their childhood flickered through her mind—training together, laughing in rare moments of peace, competing to prove who was stronger. They had always been together, two halves of the same blade. But that blade had been broken, and now she was left with only shards of the past.

Kurome closed her eyes briefly. Could she truly bring herself to kill Akame? If they crossed blades again, would she strike with the intent to end her sister's life? Or would she falter? Heavy's sorrow, his regret—it stirred something in her, something she wasn't ready to name.

But one truth remained: hesitation in battle meant death. And she had no intention of dying.

Opening her eyes, she exhaled softly. She would find her answer when the time came