The streets of the Capital were alive with the electric buzz of the tournament, an event designed as much for entertainment as it was for bloodshed. Banners bearing the Imperial insignia fluttered in the warm breeze, and merchants lined the streets, hawking everything from skewered meats to crude replicas of the weapons wielded by the combatants. The coliseum itself loomed over the city, a grand edifice of stone and steel, its towering walls hiding the brutal spectacle within. Inside, warriors clashed for glory—or for something far more sinister.
The audience roared with anticipation as combatants battled in the sand-strewn arena, blood staining the ground in gruesome patterns. The Empire thrived on spectacles like this, masking its ruthless nature beneath the guise of tradition and celebration. The tournament was a show of strength, a lure for warriors seeking fame or wealth, but Spy knew better than to take it at face value. Nothing the Empire did was without ulterior motive.
Spy and Scout moved effortlessly through the crowd, their practiced steps blending them into the sea of spectators. To any onlooker, they were nothing more than travelers caught up in the spectacle, but their eyes were sharp, scanning for more than just entertainment. They weren't here for the bloodsport or the gambling—no, they were hunting for information. They knew the Empire too well to believe this was a simple contest of strength. This tournament was a test, a selection process, or worse, a trap. They needed to know which.
Up in the VIP section, a figure commanded their attention. Dressed in her signature blue uniform, a smirk playing at her lips, Esdeath watched the battles unfold with an unsettling amusement. The air around her seemed colder, as if her presence alone was enough to freeze the very atmosphere. She was relaxed, almost playful in her posture, but Spy recognized the glint in her eyes—the calculating gaze of a predator. She wasn't merely watching. She was choosing.
Spy exhaled softly through his nose, his sharp mind piecing together the threads of a sinister design. The Empire never acted without purpose, and Esdeath's presence alone signaled something far more calculated than mere entertainment. This tournament was a stage, but not for warriors—it was bait, luring the desperate, the strong, and the reckless into a controlled environment where they could be observed, tested, and ultimately claimed. He had seen such tactics before, in the shadowed alleys of intelligence warfare and in the cold, ruthless efficiency of an Empire that saw its people as pawns. His suspicions crystallized into certainty as his gaze lingered on Esdeath's satisfied smirk and the increasing brutality in the arena below.
"Zhis is no mere tournament… it is a hunt."
Scout furrowed his brows, glancing at him. "What? What do you mean?"
Spy didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted downward, locking onto the central platform where a lone warrior fought for survival. Tatsumi. The young assassin moved with determination, his every strike precise, but Spy could see it—the ever-narrowing noose tightening around him. This wasn't just a competition.
A twinge of unease settled in Scout's chest as he watched Tatsumi fend off his opponent. They had fought alongside the kid for weeks, sharing victories, close calls, and war stories over campfires. Now, he was down there alone, walking into something neither of them could fully grasp. "Man... we should've never let him go off on his own. This whole thing's got a bad feel to it."
Spy's fingers twitched slightly, his usual mask of composure strained. He had witnessed too many promising fighters be consumed by their own naïve optimism, believing they could take on the world without understanding the true depths of the abyss they stood before. Tatsumi was capable, yes, but he was young, reckless. And Esdeath—she was a force beyond sheer strength. She was control, a force of nature molded into a woman.
"He does not yet realize," Spy murmured, his voice almost regretful. "Ze game he plays has already been decided."
Scout crossed his arms, chewing his lip in frustration. "You think he can win?"
Spy's smirk faltered for just a second. "Winning, mon ami, is not always ze goal. Survival is."
Scout glanced between Spy and the arena, watching Tatsumi barely evade a crushing blow. He was strong, but against the Empire's machinations, brute strength alone wasn't enough. The air of confidence Spy usually carried hadn't wavered, but Scout could tell—he wasn't just analyzing the situation. He was strategizing.
Scout's usual bravado wavered for a moment. "So what do we do?"
Spy's smirk returned, sharper this time, like a blade unsheathed. "We interfere."
As the tournament raged on, Spy's mind worked swiftly, a gambit forming—one that could turn the tide of this twisted game and steal its prize away from Esdeath's waiting grasp.
Under the cover of darkness, Spy and Scout navigated the winding halls of the Capital's tournament quarters. Their movements were swift, silent, precise. The soft glow of torchlight flickered through the narrow cracks of Tatsumi's chamber door as the two infiltrators pressed against the cold stone walls, their ears tuned to any signs of guards or unwanted company. Every second counted; the risk of discovery was ever-present, but the potential rewards made it worth it.
Inside, Tatsumi stirred. His body still ached from the grueling match earlier that day, but his senses remained sharp. He had been fighting relentlessly, each battle pushing him closer to exhaustion. A whisper of movement outside made him jolt upright, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon. His heartbeat quickened, his muscles tensed. Was this an assassin? The Empire's forces looking to take him out quietly? Before he could react, the door creaked open ever so slightly, and two familiar figures slipped inside, their silhouettes barely visible in the dim light.
His grip tightened on his weapon. "Spy? Scout?" he hissed, his voice low but tense. His eyes narrowed in a mixture of surprise and suspicion. He hadn't seen them in months—not since they'd parted ways after their previous mission. "What the hell are you two doing here?"
Spy, ever the epitome of composure, stepped forward and removed his mask with a smooth flourish. The dim light caught the sharp contours of his face as he offered a smirk, his expression unreadable yet exuding confidence. "Ah, mon ami… We meet again."
Tatsumi's initial relief at seeing them again was fleeting, quickly replaced by wariness. His mind was already racing, piecing together possibilities. "You disappeared for months. What have you been up to? What's going on?"
Scout shrugged nonchalantly. "Eh, y'know. Drinkin', fightin', blowing stuff up… but this ain't the time for a reunion, dude. We got a problem."
Spy cut to the chase, his voice laced with cool precision. "You will leave ze tournament. I will take your place."
Tatsumi blinked. Then, his face hardened. "What? No. Absolutely not. This is my fight. I'm not running."
Spy sighed, as if expecting the resistance. He took a slow step forward, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as if he were speaking to an old friend rather than making an ultimatum. "Tatsumi, mon ami, you are thinking like a soldier, not a strategist. You believe this is just another battle, but it is not. It is a game, and Esdeath is already five moves ahead."
Tatsumi scowled. "I don't care about games. I came here to fight, not to play mind tricks."
"And zat, my dear boy, is why you are walking straight into ze jaws of a predator," Spy countered, his voice smooth, yet sharp like a blade hidden beneath silk. "You believe you still have control, but you do not. Ze moment you step into zat arena again, you will become hers."
Tatsumi clenched his fists. He wanted to deny it, to say Spy was wrong, but the way Esdeath watched him, the way she effortlessly crushed anyone in her path—it gnawed at him. Still, he couldn't just abandon the fight. "Even if that's true, what do you expect me to do? Just leave? Hide? That's not an option."
Spy's smirk remained, though his gaze sharpened. "No, not hide. Reposition. A proper move, in a proper game. You let me take your place, and instead of being ze hunted, we become ze hunters."
Tatsumi hesitated, doubt flickering in his expression. Spy saw it—the moment of uncertainty, the crack in his resolve. And that was when he struck.
"Bulat is alive."
Silence.
Tatsumi froze, his breath hitching. He felt the world tilt beneath him, his heart hammering in his chest. "Bulat… He's alive?!"
Scout nodded, his usual bravado giving way to sincerity. "Yeah, man. We were there. We saw it all go down on that warship. Thought it was gonna be a one-way trip for Bulat, but guess what? Medic had other plans. We watched it happen—watched him bring your big bro back from the brink."
Tatsumi staggered, gripping the edge of his cot for support. His mind raced. Bulat had died in his arms. He had seen it happen. He had buried that pain deep within him, carrying it as a motivation to grow stronger. And now… he was alive?
Spy took advantage of his shock, his voice smooth as silk. "If you stay, you will be taken. If you are taken, Night Raid loses you. But if I replace you… we control ze game."
Tatsumi swallowed hard. It was a trap. He had suspected as much from the moment he entered this tournament, but hearing it spoken aloud made the reality sink in. Esdeath was watching. She was hunting. And he was the prey.
His fists clenched. "If Bulat's alive, why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Spy's eyes gleamed, his smirk widening. "Because now… you have something to lose."
Tatsumi's shoulders slumped slightly. He hated how right Spy was. He hated being manipulated. But more than anything, he hated the idea of walking into a situation blind while Night Raid was left vulnerable. His thoughts ran wild—how had Bulat survived? Was he safe? Did Night Raid know? And why were the REDs withholding information until now?
Scout stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Look, dude. We ain't tryin' to screw you over. We need to keep Esdeath guessing, and if she gets her hands on ya, it's game over. You've seen how she fights. She doesn't just kill her prey—she plays with 'em. And that ain't somethin' ya wanna be part of."
Tatsumi exhaled sharply, his resolve shaking but not yet shattered. He glanced between the two mercenaries, reading their faces. Scout was blunt and sometimes reckless, but he was loyal. Spy was cunning, his motives always layered, but there was a distinct lack of deceit in his words this time.
With a deep breath, Tatsumi finally nodded. "Fine. Do it."
Spy grinned and adjusted his tie. A flicker of red energy shimmered over his body, and in an instant, Tatsumi found himself staring at a perfect mirror image of himself. His mannerisms, his posture, even the subtle quirks of his expressions—all replicated flawlessly. It was uncanny, unsettling even.
Scout clapped Tatsumi on the back, offering a crooked grin. "Don't screw this up, dude."
As Tatsumi disappeared into the shadows, Spy—now Tatsumi—stepped forward, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his stance. He took a moment to assess himself, perfecting the nuances of his new role. He smirked, knowing the game had begun.
Spy, now fully transformed into Tatsumi, adjusted his stance as he entered the waiting area for the tournament's final rounds. The air was thick with tension—fighters resting, sharpening their weapons, or merely sitting in focused silence. The faint clinking of metal, the hushed murmurs of competitors discussing their past fights, and the distant roar of the crowd all blended into a tense, suffocating atmosphere. He walked with practiced ease, mimicking Tatsumi's gait, though his steps were just a fraction too smooth, too precise. His shoulders lacked the subtle stiffness of a fighter still adjusting to the weight of battle. A lesser observer wouldn't have noticed, but one already familiar with Tatsumi's natural awkwardness would.
From the elevated stands above, Esdeath lounged in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, her icy blue eyes fixed on "Tatsumi" with keen interest. She had observed him closely throughout the tournament, studying his movements, his expressions, his way of fighting. Something about him had always intrigued her—his resilience, his willpower, his spirit—but now, something felt slightly off. It wasn't anything blatant, but there was a different air about him. His presence in the arena felt… refined. Calculated. Still, she remained entertained, her smirk unwavering as she rested her chin on her palm, eager to see how her 'chosen one' would perform in the final rounds.
Meanwhile, Akame lingered near the corridor leading into the arena, arms crossed as she observed "Tatsumi" with a sharp, calculating gaze. Her senses were honed for deception, for minute inconsistencies in a person's mannerisms. Something gnawed at her instincts. He was walking confidently—too confidently. The real Tatsumi, while undeniably strong, still carried a level of nervous energy before a major fight. A certain eagerness, a restlessness, a raw edge that made him who he was. But this Tatsumi? His movements were too measured, too relaxed, lacking that signature tension. There was no hesitation in his step, no subconscious glances to steady himself.
"Tatsumi…" Akame's voice was quiet, but firm, carrying an unshakable weight.
Spy—disguised as Tatsumi—halted mid-step, turning his head toward her with just the right amount of casual surprise. "Hmm?"
"You're moving differently," she stated, her crimson eyes locking onto his own. There was no hostility, just pure, unfiltered scrutiny. A hunter analyzing their prey. Her sharp gaze flickered over him, dissecting every minute detail—his stance, his posture, the way his hands rested at his sides instead of fidgeting slightly as they usually would.
Spy barely hesitated. With a flawless execution of Tatsumi's mannerisms, he gave an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his head in mock sheepishness. "Ah, well… I guess I'm just getting used to the rhythm of the fights." He forced a grin, carefully moderating his voice to match Tatsumi's natural tone. "Gotta keep my cool, right?"
Akame didn't respond immediately. Her expression remained unreadable, but her gaze never wavered. The intensity of her silence was suffocating.
Then, at last, she gave the faintest nod.
But inside, doubt took root. Something was wrong. And she would find out what.
