Chapter 4
Disclaimer: Akame Ga Kill and Star Wars are not owned by me.
The chamber is drenched in shadow not mere darkness, but something deeper, something sentient. It clings to the walls, to the very air, as if the room itself has been swallowed by a force unseen. A quiet so absolute it feels unnatural.
Nothing moves.
No sound but the slow, rhythmic hum of machinery, a pulse in the void, constant, patient. Like breath from a sleeping beast.
Then—a voice.
Not loud. Not rushed. But deliberate. Croaky. Weighted with something far heavier than mere words.
"I sense a great disturbance in the Force."
The silence after is deafening.
A pause. Not of confusion but of dread.
The figures in the chamber do not speak. They do not dare.
They know better.
The words slither through the air, wrapping around them like invisible coils, suffocating, tightening, until every breath feels like it is being monitored. Judged. Calculated.
A slow movement controlled, deliberate. The chair turns, shifting ever so slightly. The darkness bends to its master.
A faint glow from a nearby console spills onto a pale, sickly hand, steepled together, fingertips pressing lightly against one another in a display of absolute control. The cloak drapes over hunched shoulders, the folds swallowing what little light dares to exist in this room.
Then, a glimpse.
The hood does little to obscure the deep-set eyes, dark and hollow like twin black holes devouring the light around them. They do not blink. They do not flicker. They see all.
And the mouth a smile. Thin. Curved with quiet amusement.
Not surprise.
Not concern.
This is not revelation. This is confirmation.
The future is not slipping beyond his grasp.
It is falling into place.
Somewhere, out in the galaxy, something has shifted. A ripple in the currents of the Force. An anomaly. An unpredictable factor.
But there are no true unknowns. Not for him.
Everything follows the path he has seen, the web he has spun.
Everything bends to his will.
Everything will fall just as it always has.
Just as it must.
High within the towering spires of the Jedi Temple, where wisdom is meant to outweigh impulse, another voice speaks.
The chamber is vast, its silence profound not from peace, but from the weight of the moment. The glow of holoprojectors casts long shadows across the ancient stone walls, flickering against the gathered figures seated in a perfect circle. Guardians of the Republic. Keepers of balance. Watchers of the unseen.
Small in form, vast in wisdom, the figure lifts his head. His ears twitch subtle, but telling. His breath slows, his brow furrows. He listens. Not to sound, but to something deeper.
"A great disturbance, I feel."
The words cut through the room like a blade.
The others shift in their seats, some stiffen, others glance at each other with muted concern. A few nod in agreement, their senses having already caught the same ripple in the Force. And then there are those who remain still too proud, too confident, unwilling to see beyond the veil of their own certainty.
A disturbance.
A tear in the currents of the Force.
They do not know where.
They do not know why.
But it is coming.
The discussion unfolds in careful, measured words. A debate wrapped in veiled warnings and unspoken fears.
Some call for patience. Some question if the threat is even real.
But the Force is shifting. Something unnatural stirs beneath its surface.
And the Jedi once keepers of foresight, now bound by hesitation do nothing.
For now, they only watch.
Somewhere far from their reach, Akame sleeps.
Or tries to.
The moment her eyes close, they come.
The voices.
Sharp, broken, filled with something worse than rage accusation.
Tatsumi.
Mine.
Sheele.
Kurome.
Each name twists like a blade in her chest.
They don't whisper. They scream.
"Why didn't you save us?"
"You could have been stronger!"
"Why did you kill me, sister?"
"You're the reason I'm dead!"
"Why don't you join us already?"
She sees them, clear as day.
Their faces twisted in pain, their bodies ruined, broken in ways she cannot unsee.
She reaches for them, but the moment her fingers brush against their forms, they dissolve.
Like mist in the morning sun.
Like ghosts that refuse to stay.
Then, silence.
Akame stands in the empty void a space of nothingness, of cold, of absence.
A place that feels too familiar.
And then—
A hand on her shoulder.
The touch is light. But it chills her to the bone.
She turns.
And sees herself.
But it's not her.
The other Akame stands before her, clad in the same assassin's uniform, the same sword strapped to her back. The same red eyes.
But there is something wrong.
Her gaze is hollow. Empty. A void where life should be.
And then she smiles.
Slow. Twisted. Unnatural.
"You were always meant to be alone."
Akame jerks awake.
A sharp inhale. Lungs desperate for air.
Sweat clings to her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her breath comes in short, ragged bursts, as if she had just fought her way out of something unseen, something that still lingers just beyond the edges of consciousness.
She blinks. Her hands are trembling.
The room is dark. Silent. Safe.
But the echoes of their voices still cling to the air, still whisper in the recesses of her mind.
"Why don't you join us?"
She presses her palms against her temples. Steady. Breathe. Control.
It was just a dream.
But it never feels like just a dream.
She moves.
The bathroom light flickers on with a quiet hum. She doesn't look at herself in the mirror. Doesn't need to. She knows what she'll see—haunted eyes, sleepless shadows beneath them, a face that doesn't quite belong to her anymore.
Instead, she grips the towel, soaks it in cold water, and presses it against her face. The chill bites into her skin. Sharp. Grounding. But it does nothing to erase the voices.
Still there. Always there.
She exhales through her nose, drops the towel, and moves to the kitchen. A change of scenery, a different space—anything to push the nightmare further away.
The kitchen is dim, silent except for the faint hum of machinery. She keeps her movements deliberate. Precise. The pot warms, milk steaming as she pours it into a cup. She doesn't drink immediately. She lets the warmth seep through her hands, into her fingers, pushing away the last of the cold sweat clinging to her skin.
She takes a sip.
Heat. Familiar. A small comfort in a night that offers none.
She exhales.
The silence feels heavier now. Not suffocating, but waiting.
She glances at the clock. Too late. Too early. A time where nothing feels real.
Returning to bed feels like an obligation more than a choice. She knows sleep won't come easily, but she has to try.
So she lays down.
Closes her eyes.
A brilliant ray of sunlight cut through the curtains, spilling golden light across the room. It climbed up the walls, stretched over the bed, and landed on Akame's face, pulling her from the depths of sleep. She stirred, groaning softly, momentarily blinded by the dazzling warmth pressing against her closed eyelids.
For a moment, she lay there, letting the remnants of her dreams dissolve into the morning light. Last night had been different. The nightmares still lurked, waiting in the shadows of her mind, but the sleep itself had been comforting. A rarity.
She stretched, muscles unfurling like coiled wires, and exhaled. Today was important.
The interview was scheduled for noon. A chance. A test. A step toward the future she needed to shape. She turned her head toward the clock, eyes narrowing against the morning haze. Plenty of time. Enough to eat, to prepare, to get her mind and body in sync.
She pushed the covers aside, the cool air rushing over her bare skin. The nerves were there, but so was something else. Excitement. Determination. Resolve.
This wasn't just about securing a position at the queen's side. It was about saving the future.
Because now she would be there—watching, waiting, ensuring that the events she had glimpsed never came to pass.
A plan was forming, tangled between what she knew and what she still had to learn. Arachne's powers. The Ice Age's abilities. The 1000 katas and sword techniques she had uncovered. And the book—"Long Forgotten Martial Art Skills." Another relic pulled from the Prime Minister's hidden stairwell, holding knowledge that had slipped through time's fingers. She would also have to learn how to spawn lightning with Adramelech's gauntlets.
She would learn them. Master them. Sharpen herself into something beyond what she had ever been before.
But not today.
Today, she had to focus.
The hot water cascaded over her shoulders as she stepped into the shower, steam curling around her like a gentle mist.
Shampoo drizzled down onto Akame's scalp, thick and fragrant, the rich scent of peaches filling the small space. Her fingers worked through the tangles with methodical efficiency, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep, washing away whatever echoes of the past still clung to her.
The warm water cascaded over her, streaming down her back, curling around her shoulders before vanishing down the drain. She closed her eyes, letting the steam rise, the lather swirl, the quiet settle.
For a few moments, she allowed herself the luxury of stillness.
Then, with a slow exhale, she turned off the shower.
Stepping onto the bath mat, she reached for a towel, wrapping herself in its softness. The sensation was grounding, the fabric warm against her freshly cleaned skin. As she dried off, her mind wandered to the interview, to the future, to everything she still needed to master.
Her wardrobe situation would need to be dealt with soon. One outfit wouldn't last forever. But that wasn't today's concern.
She pushed the thought aside, tying the towel around herself.
As she stepped out of the bathroom, a glint on the floor caught her eye.
A letter.
Akame's brow furrowed slightly as she bent down, fingers closing around the envelope. She tore it open with practiced ease, her eyes scanning the contents.
The next stage of the interview. A location. A set of rules.
"Do not bring your own weapons. Nonlethal weapons will be provided at the venue. If you do bring your weapons, you will be disqualified. No killing is allowed."
She read it twice. Committed it to memory.
No weapons. That changed things.
She would have to leave her precious Murasame here.
But she wasn't worried.
Slipping into her worn but reliable attire, she fastened the buttons, adjusted the straps, felt the familiar weight of fabric settling against her skin. It was old, but it fit her like a second skin. A reminder of who she was.
Now, food.
Her stomach churned with hunger, her body demanding fuel before the coming trial.
The moment she stepped into the kitchen, she froze.
This wasn't a kitchen. Not by her standards.
It was a cybernetic marvel.
The air buzzed with the quiet hum of technology, sleek surfaces gleaming under soft neon lighting. At first glance, it resembled a high-tech laboratory more than a place to prepare food. Everything here felt engineered for perfection.
She moved slowly, eyes scanning the equipment some of it familiar, most of it bordering on incomprehensible.
A mezzaluna knife, but not just any blade. A quantum-edge mezzaluna, the metal shimmering with an otherworldly glow.
A holographic mandoline slicer, projecting beams of light that sliced through ingredients with surgical precision.
A steamer basket—floating. Suspended midair by magnetic fields.
A nanotech pressure cooker gleamed in the corner, its display showing a complex web of data midair. An AI-assisted electric mixer hummed softly, its movements almost too fluid, too human.
A molecular gastronomy kit, vials and beakers filled with iridescent liquids.
A centrifuge machine, a biometric food analyzer, a nitrogen canister tethered to a rotary evaporator.
And then the things she couldn't even begin to understand.
A Quantum Entanglement Cooker. A Molecular Decoupler. A Synaptic Flavor Enhancer. A Chrono-Resonance Dehydrator.
Everything felt impossibly advanced.
And yet—it was still a kitchen.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the scent of baking bread. Familiar comforts, hidden beneath a veil of science fiction.
Akame's lips curled slightly. She could work with this.
The automated sous-vide machine hummed to life, its sleek interface pulsing as Akame programmed it for absolute precision. She barely had to think about the process her fingers moved instinctively, adjusting the settings, fine-tuning the temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just enough to cook the eggs to the perfect, delicate texture.
She cracked an egg into a small cup, watching the yolk settle—rich, golden, whole. It slid into the warm water bath without a sound, disappearing beneath the surface as the sous-vide did its work. No violent bubbling, no panicked stirring, just control. The water held steady, enveloping the egg in a gentle embrace, coaxing it into perfection.
While it cooked, she turned her attention to the hollandaise.
A futuristic molecular gastronomy mixer whirred beside her, its programmed motions more precise than any human hand. Akame poured in golden melted butter, the thick liquid swirling around the yolks she had separated earlier. A pinch of salt. A dash of cayenne. The AI-assisted whisk adjusted its speed, folding everything together with mechanical patience. She watched as the sauce thickened—silky, smooth, luxurious.
Her knife hovered over the English muffin. A simple step, yet crucial. The holographic mandoline slicer projected a set of laser guides—exact evenness. Perfect symmetry. The blade cut through the soft bread effortlessly, splitting it into two identical halves. She placed them into the self-regulating toaster, and within seconds, they emerged golden, crisp, warm.
The egg was ready.
Akame lifted it from the water with careful precision, setting it onto the toasted muffin. The poached egg glistened, trembling slightly as if aware of its fragile existence. The slightest pressure would break it, releasing the molten gold hidden within.
She layered a few thin slices of perfectly cured protein—perhaps smoked nerf bacon, perhaps something else entirely, something foreign but complementary. It curled slightly against the warmth of the muffin, adding depth to the flavor.
With a steady hand, she poured the hollandaise.
Thick. Golden. Luxurious. It cascaded over the egg in a slow, deliberate motion, pooling around the edges but never drowning the dish. Controlled chaos. A touch of freshly cracked pepper. A whisper of lemon.
She took a step back.
Perfect.
It was not just breakfast. It was engineered indulgence. A meal that required patience, precision, and a complete understanding of balance.
She sat, fork in hand, blade glinting against the soft light of the kitchen.
A single cut.
The yolk spilled out like liquid sunlight, mingling with the sauce, seeping into the crisp, buttery muffin below.
She took a bite.
And for a brief moment, everything else disappeared.
She finished the last bite, savoring it, feeling the satisfaction settle deep in her bones. But something was missing. A contrast. A final note to complete the symphony of flavors.
Something sweet.
Her gaze drifted across the kitchen, landing on the Molecular Gastronomy Kit.
A different kind of challenge. A different kind of precision.
But Akame never backed away from mastery.
She wiped the last traces of hollandaise from her lips, stood, and moved toward the station.
The chocolate had to be perfect.
Dark. Rich. Nearly bitter. Just enough sweetness to temper the intensity, to draw out the complexity. The Quantum Entanglement Cooker melted it down flawlessly, breaking apart its structure, smoothing out any imperfections. No graininess. No resistance. Just silk.
A holographic screen displayed the proportions flour to the microgram, eggs whisked at the perfect aeration level, sugar measured with unrelenting precision.
The AI-assisted mixer hummed softly, folding the ingredients together in delicate, rhythmic turns.
Then, the secret ingredient.
Liquid nitrogen.
The rotary evaporator condensed the rich chocolate essence, stripping away excess moisture, concentrating the flavor into something pure, unrelenting, almost intoxicating. White vapor curled into the air as she poured the reduction into the batter, watching as it darkened, thickened, transformed.
She poured the mixture into a temperature-regulated baking mold, ensuring the edges would crisp just enough, while the center remained molten. No guesswork. No chance. Only mastery.
The oven is sealed shut. The countdown began.
Minutes later, it emerged.
She let it settle just long enough, anticipation coiling inside her like a drawn blade.
Then, the final touch.
A drizzle of Synaptic Flavor-Enhanced ganache-velvet-dark, cascading in delicate ribbons, pooling at the edges but never overwhelming. A dusting of gold leaf. A whisper of sea salt.
The first test.
Akame lifted the fork, pressed it against the surface. The outer layer yielded instantly, giving way to the molten center within.
Thick. Velvety. Unapologetically indulgent.
She took a bite.
The first bite melted the moment it touched her tongue.
Warm. Silky. Decadent.
The richness of the chocolate hit first—bold, intense, almost overwhelming, like the first strike of a battle. But then it softened, giving way to a depth of flavor so smooth it felt like it had been waiting for her, lingering at the edges of every taste bud.
She barely had time to process it before the slight bitterness bloomed, cutting through the sweetness like the clean edge of a blade. A contrast. A balance. The dark notes folded into something earthy, grounding, deeper than just sugar and cream.
Then came the warmth.
Not heat, but something cozy, slow-spreading, like stepping into the sun after a cold night. The ganache pooled over her tongue, velvety, clinging to every corner of her mouth before dissolving into a whisper of sea salt, just enough to sharpen everything, to make it clearer, more vivid.
And underneath it all, something she couldn't quite name. A ghost of spice? A hint of citrus? A flavor that danced at the edges but never fully revealed itself?
It was indulgence, but it was also precision. Nothing wasted. Nothing out of place.
Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, her senses narrowing to just this—just the warmth, the silk, the weightless drift of chocolate and salt and something unshakably perfect.
For a second, the world around her blurred, softened into nothing.
Then she swallowed.
The flavors lingered, fading slowly, like the aftershock of a well-placed strike.
Her grip on the fork tightened.
And she took another bite.
After quickly washing the dishes, and brushing her teeth, Akame rushed out door to the venue.
The venue was larger than she expected.
Akame stepped inside, scanning the space with sharp eyes, taking in the contestants, the tension, the air thick with quiet anticipation. She had expected more. More faces, more competition, more warriors trying to prove themselves.
Instead, only a handful remained.
It wasn't just about skill—this far in, it was about endurance. Selection. Culling.
The room buzzed with nervous energy. Some stood calm, collected, unreadable, their postures giving away nothing. Others shifted uneasily, the weight of the competition settling on their shoulders. Some looked sharp, deadly—assassins, mercenaries, people who had fought before. Others? Less certain. They might have skill, but no experience. Not yet, at least.
One stood out immediately.
A mountain of a woman with arms that could probably tear through durasteel if given the chance. Broad shoulders. Thick muscle. A presence that demanded space. She looked like she had been carved from stone, her chiseled features making her look more statue than human. Confident. Dangerous. Unshaken.
Akame noted her instantly. The kind of opponent you don't overpower. You outmaneuver.
She kept walking. Observing.
A smaller contestant, lean, swift, their movements too precise to be untrained. A shadow-dancer, someone who moved with the kind of quiet grace that came from years of hiding in the dark.
Another, standing still. Calm. Collected. Not fidgeting, not shifting weight. The kind of person who understood patience. They weren't waiting for the fight. They were waiting to strike.
Every single one of them had made it this far for a reason. And only one of them would win.
Padmé stepped forward, her expression composed but firm. The murmurs in the room quieted instantly. Everyone was waiting. Watching. Listening.
"The second stage of the interviews," she began, voice steady, commanding without force, "will be conducted in a tournament-style format. Your names have already been inputted into the system.
"Your matchups will be randomly generated," Padmé continued, her tone even but firm. "The system will determine your opponents, and there will be no changes, no requests for adjustments. You fight who you are assigned."
She let that settle. Some competitors exchanged glances, tense, measuring the competition. Others remained still, unreadable.
Padmé's gaze swept across them, unwavering.
"I will remind you now—there is no killing."
The weight of her words hung in the air like a drawn blade.
"No cheating. No poisoning. No breaking the rules in any form. The only way to advance is by incapacitating your opponent. Knock them out, force them to submit—those are your only options."
She gestured to the right.
A sleek, metallic rack slid forward, revealing an array of nonlethal weapons. Blades with dulled edges. Shock batons. Quarterstaffs reinforced with kinetic dampeners. Even firearms—each one marked with the unmistakable glow of a stun setting.
"You may choose from these," Padmé continued. "Nothing else. If you are caught using outside weapons, you will be immediately disqualified and escorted out."
A few competitors shifted uneasily. Some, clearly used to fighting with their own weapons, seemed momentarily thrown off. Akame simply observed.
None of this fazed her.
"And finally," Padmé continued, "the final round will not be a traditional match."
That caught attention.
She let the tension build for a moment.
"The last competitors will face a challenge," she said. "The details of that challenge will be revealed once we reach the final round."
No one spoke.
The anticipation had sharp edges.
Padmé nodded, satisfied. "The tournament begins soon. Choose wisely."
And with that, the game was set.
Akame moved through the lineup with quiet precision, her eyes scanning each weapon, measuring, weighing. Not just the steel, the wood, or the circuitry—but how they fit. How they spoke to her.
A tanto blade. Fast. Clean. Perfect for quick finishes, but too short to give her the range she needed.
A quarterstaff. Fluid, adaptable. Good for controlling space. But she wasn't here to play defense.
Electric whips. A trick weapon. Unpredictable, hard to counter, but not her style. Too showy. Too imprecise.
Batons. Dual blasters. A sniper set to stun.
All fine. For someone else.
Then—the wooden katana.
She didn't hesitate. Her fingers curled around the hilt, lifting it from the rack with an instinctive ease, like greeting an old friend. Light, but balanced. Not the real thing, not even close—but enough.
She gave it a slow, testing swing. The air sighed against the wood. Her grip adjusted, refined. This would work.
It was her best discipline. Not just muscle memory, but something deeper. The sword had always been more than just a weapon—it was an extension of herself. The way she moved, the way she thought, the way she fought. Anything else would feel unnatural.
She rolled her shoulders, shifting her weight, feeling the blade settle into place like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for her.
She turned away from the rack, already focused. The fight hadn't started yet, but in her mind, it had.
And she was ready.
Names flashed across the screen in rapid succession, cycling through the list of remaining competitors. Too fast to track. A blur of letters, shifting, swapping, calculating.
Then—it stopped.
Two names locked in place.
One was hers.
The other—her opponent.
Akame's grip on the wooden katana tightened just slightly. No hesitation. No doubt.
The floor beneath her gleamed—polished black durasteel, smooth as glass, reflecting the movement of every footstep. Above, spotlights dimmed across the dome, until only two remained. Sharp white beams, cutting through the dark to land on her and the girl across from her.
The arena wasn't massive. A circular combat chamber lined with translucent energy barriers, humming softly with static charge. Enough to contain impact. Enough to sting if someone hit it too hard.
Raised platforms circled the outer edge, viewing decks behind tinted transparisteel, where competitors, officials, and observers watched in tense silence. Holo-displays floated midair, silently updating stats, names, reaction feeds.
And at the highest vantage point centered in shadowed elegance sat Queen Padmé.
Watching.
Waiting.
The massive girl from earlier—all raw strength, thick muscle, and a presence that made the air feel heavier. She moved like a boulder set in motion, each step making the ground beneath them seem just a little more solid.
But Akame?
She wasn't phased.
Size didn't matter. Strength didn't matter. Not when speed, precision, and control dictated the fight. Not when she had already won in her mind.
A/N: I'M SO SORRY ABOUT THE LONG UPLOAD! I Have been super busy with college as im taking a lot of different classes. So, I wasn't able to have time to write this fanfic. Do not worry I am planning to become more consistent with my uploads, but college will have some effect on when I update, I will still manage to add some more commitment to writing this story.
Also what force abilities do you think Akame should have? And what saber form should she learn?