The arena roared with the fervor of the crowd, but Spy paid it no mind. Beneath the disguise of a young warrior, he moved with effortless grace, weaving between his opponent's attacks like a shadow. His footwork was impeccable, a calculated dance of deception and precision, making every feint and strike appear almost supernatural.

From the very first match, Spy had dominated his adversaries with a style unseen in the Empire's brutal tournaments. Against a heavily armored knight, he barely attacked, instead letting his opponent exhaust himself swinging at air. With each dodge, Spy made minute adjustments, forcing the knight to overextend. The final moment came when Spy, in a blur of movement, slipped behind him and delivered a precise, almost surgical thrust to the gap between his plated armor, ending the bout in an instant.

His next opponent, a dual-wielding berserker, was reckless but relentless. He charged at Spy with a flurry of wild, sweeping strikes, attempting to overwhelm him. Spy seemed to struggle at first, retreating step by step, his parries looking weaker with each clash. But it was a ruse. When the berserker committed to a heavy downward slash, Spy sidestepped at the last second and smoothly flicked his blade across the man's wrist, disarming him with effortless grace before delivering a decisive strike to his exposed throat.

As the tournament progressed, Spy adapted to each opponent with an eerie efficiency. Against a nimble rogue, he lured him into a false sense of security before predicting his movements and intercepting his attack with surgical precision. Against a brute wielding a spiked club, he baited him into smashing the ground repeatedly, forcing the arena floor to become uneven before tripping him with a simple but well-placed kick.

By the time he reached the finals, the audience was no longer simply cheering—they were captivated, whispering in awe at the fighter who never wasted a movement, who won each battle without ever appearing desperate. He was not merely stronger—he was untouchable.

His latest opponent—a towering brute armed with a colossal war hammer—roared as he brought his weapon down, aiming to crush him in a single blow. Spy barely avoided the impact, rolling aside at the last second as dust and debris kicked up from the sheer force of the strike. He stumbled slightly, feigning exhaustion, allowing the brute a moment of confidence.

The crowd roared as the brute pressed the attack, swinging the hammer in wide arcs meant to break bones and shatter defenses. Spy dodged with calculated movements, each evasion looking more desperate than the last. A narrow miss sent him staggering back, nearly losing his balance. The brute grinned, sensing victory.

Then, in an instant, Spy's demeanor shifted. His footwork became sharper, his movements more fluid. As the war hammer came crashing down once more, he pivoted smoothly, stepping into the brute's guard. With a flick of his wrist, Spy's blade found its mark, a clean strike against the man's unguarded ribs. The brute's grin faded as pain overtook him, eyes widening in shock before his body buckled. He staggered, struggling to breathe, then toppled over with a thunderous crash.

The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and gasps, enthralled by the 'young warrior's' prowess. Esdeath, watching from above, leaned forward slightly, a glint of intrigue in her eyes.

"Stronger than I expected… Perhaps I was right to take an interest in him." Her voice, though quiet, carried weight, sending a ripple of tension through those seated near her.

Spy dusted off his hands, straightening his posture as though the fight had been little more than an amusing diversion. He cast a glance toward the stands, his masked expression unreadable. With an air of effortless confidence, he awaited the final announcement.

The tournament champion had been decided.

His victory was absolute.

The roaring cheers of the crowd began to die down as Esdeath rose from her seat, her piercing blue eyes locked onto the lone figure standing victorious in the arena. The battlefield was littered with fallen combatants, yet the so-called 'Tatsumi' remained unscathed, barely even winded. His form was impeccable, his movements during the fight precise, calculated—unnatural, even. There was no hesitation in his strikes, no wasted motion, only efficiency honed from years of experience—something far beyond what she had witnessed from him before.

She smiled, slowly, savoring the moment. This was an unexpected but welcome surprise.

"A splendid performance." Her voice carried effortlessly across the silence, sending a cold shiver through those present. Even the strongest warriors who had participated in the tournament tensed instinctively at the sound of her approval. "I had hoped for at least a little struggle, but I suppose true strength is effortless, isn't it?"

Spy, still masked beneath his flawless disguise, gave a practiced, measured bow. "I merely fight to survive, General." He laced his words with just the right amount of humility—enough to seem genuine but not enough to appear weak. His voice, carefully modulated, carried no trace of arrogance, yet he knew exactly how to play the part of a wary but talented fighter.

Esdeath's grin widened. Her eyes gleamed with intrigue as she took slow, deliberate steps forward, her presence alone parting the arena's attendants like waves. The sound of her boots against the stone floor echoed ominously in the quieted coliseum. "From this moment on, you belong to me."

The crowd gasped, whispers rippling through the stands like wildfire. A champion, personally chosen by the infamous Esdeath? It was unheard of. The implications were clear—this 'Tatsumi' had not just earned recognition but possession.

Spy remained impassive, though internally, he smirked. A dangerous game indeed... but one I intend to win. He had played countless roles before, worn the faces of a thousand men, deceived even the most perceptive minds. But Esdeath was no ordinary opponent. She was something else entirely—ruthless, perceptive, and entirely unpredictable. Yet that only made the game more exhilarating.

Up in the stands, Scout gawked, mouth agape. His expression twisted in growing irritation as realization set in. His fingers curled around the railing, gripping it tight as if it could somehow change the reality before him.

"Oh, come on!" he hissed under his breath, throwing his arms up so aggressively that the person next to him flinched. "That lucky bastard! He gets to be rich, famous, and he gets the hot ice lady?! No fair!" His voice carried slightly louder than intended, earning a few confused glances from nearby spectators.

He scowled as he watched the guards approach Spy, now escorting him toward Esdeath's side like some prize-winning fighter. Scout's teeth clenched as he muttered, "Man, if he starts enjoyin' this, I swear, I'm gonna lose it."

Then, just as Spy was led away, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Though his face still wore Tatsumi's features, the smug, knowing gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. It was a look Scout had seen before—one that said, I win, chéri.

Scout clenched his fists. "I swear, I hate that guy."

With a frustrated groan, he turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering curses under his breath. He had no doubt this whole thing would blow up in Spy's face eventually, and when it did, he'd be the one stuck dealing with it.

That is, if the guy doesn't actually end up enjoying himself...

Tatsumi moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridors of the Capital's underground tunnels, his heartbeat still racing from the absurdity of what had just happened. Every step echoed slightly against the damp stone, a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the crowd still lingering in his ears. He couldn't help but glance over his shoulder one last time at the grand arena, where the torches illuminated the cheering spectators.

Above them all, Esdeath sat upon her throne-like seat, her piercing gaze fixated on the champion standing before her. 'He'—or rather, Spy in his disguise—stood victorious in the tournament, every inch the confident and charismatic warrior. Tatsumi watched in awe as his doppelganger executed a perfectly measured bow, his every movement exuding an air of nonchalance, as if he had been in control the entire time.

If Tatsumi didn't know any better, he might have believed it was truly him standing there, basking in the moment of glory. Spy had mimicked not just his appearance but even the slight nervous quirks Tatsumi himself exhibited, twisting them into something more refined—something that would undoubtedly catch Esdeath's attention.

Tatsumi suppressed a chuckle, shaking his head. "I just dodged the biggest bullet of my life."

With one last glance, he pulled his hood over his head and disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway, navigating the twisting passages with the precision of someone who had spent too much time sneaking through enemy territory. The weight of the situation hadn't fully sunk in yet, but he had a nagging feeling that Spy had thrown himself into the lion's den willingly. And knowing Spy, he was already three steps ahead of everyone.


The Night Raid hideout was as quiet as ever, though the tension in the air was undeniable. The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the wooden walls, casting long shadows that made the space feel smaller than usual. As soon as Tatsumi stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted. A dozen eyes turned toward him, suspicion and relief mingling in their expressions.

For a brief moment, no one spoke. The sight of Tatsumi standing there, unscathed and very much alive, seemed almost unreal. Lubbock was the first to break the silence, his eyes widening as he leaned forward. "What the hell—Tatsumi?! You're actually here?"

Najenda, who had been quietly observing from her seat, narrowed her eyes. "This isn't possible. You were in the Capital's tournament. The reports said Esdeath took the victor under her wing. Explain. Now."

Leone let out a low whistle, shaking her head in disbelief. "Damn, kid. If this is really you, you better have one hell of a story."

Mine, arms crossed, eyed him warily. "This better not be some trick. The last thing we need is another shapeshifter infiltrating us."

He barely had time to catch his breath before Akame appeared in front of him, her crimson eyes locked onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. The way she studied him made him feel like an insect pinned under glass, and despite everything, he found himself straightening instinctively.

"You're the real Tatsumi, right?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with something sharp. Her grip on Murasame tightened ever so slightly, as if she was already prepared for the worst-case scenario.

Tatsumi blinked. He had expected some kind of welcome, maybe even relief from the others, but Akame's unwavering gaze told him that she had already suspected something was amiss. Of course she did. She was Akame. There was no fooling her.

He let out a small sigh, raising his hands in a half-surrendering motion. "Yeah… it's really me."

Akame didn't respond right away. Her piercing stare searched for any cracks in his words, waiting for a sign of deception. The silence stretched long enough for Tatsumi to feel the weight of her scrutiny pressing down on him. When she finally nodded, the tension in the room eased—but only slightly.

Leone, who had been lounging nearby, smirked as she pushed herself off the wall. "Gotta admit, you had us worried for a sec, kid. One minute you're in a tournament, the next you're here sneaking in like you've seen a ghost. What the hell happened back there?"

Tatsumi scratched the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. "Let's just say… I owe someone big time."

Mine, who had been standing with arms crossed, narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Tatsumi hesitated, his mind racing through the events of the past few hours. How was he supposed to explain this? That Spy, a man capable of perfect deception, had swooped in and taken his place, all while manipulating the situation into something that benefited them both? That the REDs had once again changed the course of his fate in ways he hadn't even begun to understand?

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "It means… I think I just watched the most ridiculous con job in history, and I got off scot-free. And I made contact with the REDs again. They were the ones who pulled this off—Spy, to be specific."

That got an immediate reaction. Leone's smirk faltered as she straightened up. "Wait. The REDs? They're still lurking around?"

Najenda's expression darkened, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair. "Interesting. So they had a hand in this as well. Did they say why?"

Tatsumi shook his head. "Not exactly. But Spy saw an opportunity and took it. I think he has his own game plan, and for some reason, it involves keeping me out of Esdeath's grasp."

Mine's breath hitched at the sudden mention of the REDs. Her arms, once confidently crossed, now tightened around herself as a wave of guilt crashed over her. She had been forced into silence about Sheele's 'death,' and the weight of that secret was suffocating. Every time she looked at her teammates—especially Tatsumi—she felt like a traitor.

She swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. "The REDs again..." she murmured, almost to herself. Her voice lacked its usual sharpness, betraying the turmoil inside her.

Tatsumi, catching the shift in her demeanor, glanced at her curiously but decided against pressing the issue. He had a feeling there was more going on than she was letting on.

The room fell into a thoughtful silence. Nobody pressed him further, but the tension remained. Whatever had happened, they all understood that this was far from over.

For now, he was safe. And he wasn't stuck in the worst possible situation he could imagine—being Esdeath's personal champion.

Yeah… he definitely dodged a bullet.