Wave stood at attention, his back stiff, sweat trickling down his temple as he faced Esdeath. The icy general sat relaxed in her chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, her piercing blue eyes locked onto him like a predator considering its next move.

"General, I can explain—" Wave began, keeping his voice steady. "During our mission in the mountains, Tatsumi and I were separated when we encountered a coordinated attack. It wasn't just him—there were others, hidden operatives who had been lying in wait. They triggered a rockslide to cut off my pursuit, forcing me into a defensive position. I engaged, but the terrain gave them an advantage, and by the time I broke free, they had already extracted him. I failed to anticipate their tactics, and for that, I take full responsibility."

Esdeath's smirk widened as she listened, her eyes gleaming with intrigue. "So you were bested?" she mused, circling him like a lion stalking wounded prey. "You, Wave, the man with Grand Chariot, were outplayed?"

Wave stiffened, straightening his posture as he met Esdeath's gaze head-on. "I take full responsibility for my failure, General. I underestimated the enemy, allowed myself to be led into a trap, and failed to secure Tatsumi as ordered. No excuses. I will learn from this, and I will not allow it to happen again."

Esdeath chuckled softly, stopping just inches from him. "Oh, I know you won't, Wave." Her voice was like silk laced with ice. "Because after today, you'll make sure you never taste defeat again."

She leaned in slightly, her breath cold against his cheek. "And I hope you can run, too."

Wave barely had time to process the words before he found himself in an absolute nightmare of a training regimen. The first part? An obstacle course designed to break lesser men.

He sprinted through knee-deep snow, leaped over jagged ice formations, and narrowly avoided spears of frost that jutted up from the ground at random intervals—courtesy of Esdeath's personal touch. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed, and yet, every time he hesitated, a sharp, bone-chilling gust of wind blasted against his back, urging him forward.

At the sidelines, Kurome sat atop a rock, lazily munching on a bag of sweets. She barely acknowledged Wave's suffering, her expression as blank as ever. "He's slow," she muttered between bites, watching as Wave barely vaulted over a particularly high ice wall. "Maybe he should train more."

Bols, ever the silent giant, stood beside her with his massive arms crossed. "It's… important to learn from mistakes," he said cautiously, as if trying to find a way to justify what they were witnessing. "Though… this might be a bit much."

Wave had no time to argue. The second part of his "punishment" was already underway.

"You're not tired, are you, Wave?" Esdeath called sweetly as she twirled her rapier in one hand. "Because we're not done yet."

Wave barely had a chance to catch his breath before Esdeath launched at him, her speed utterly inhuman. He barely managed to parry the first blow with Grand Chariot, but the sheer force sent him skidding backward across the ice.

And so it went—blow after blow, a relentless onslaught of pure, sadistic training.

Esdeath struck. Wave blocked, parried, dodged—until he couldn't anymore. A particularly well-placed strike caught him in the ribs, sending him tumbling to the frozen ground. He wheezed, his entire body trembling from exertion.

Esdeath loomed over him, an amused glint in her eyes. "You still have a long way to go."

Kurome, now on her second bag of snacks, yawned, stretching her arms as she lazily kicked her legs. "That was boring," she muttered, though her eyes remained fixed on Wave. "I thought he'd at least last a little longer. Guess he's not as strong as he brags."

Bols exhaled heavily, crossing his arms as he watched Wave struggle to even sit up. He was torn between sympathy and discipline—he understood the need for punishment, but Esdeath's methods were always extreme. "I think he's had enough," he said quietly, though he knew better than to question Esdeath outright. Still, a small part of him wished she'd show a little restraint. But then again… this was Esdeath.

Wave groaned, rolling onto his back as snowflakes drifted down from the sky. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body refusing to move.

"I swear… the next time I see that damn Tatsumi…" he muttered weakly, staring up at the sky, silently cursing his fate.


The return to Aria's Mansion was met with a mixture of relief and lingering tension. The Mercs and the Spy Squad slipped in through the side entrance, their movements well-practiced and disciplined, but there was an undeniable weight in the air. The battle at Mt. Fake had been a narrow escape, and though they had pulled off their mission, the looming threat of Esdeath and her Jaegers still hung over them like a storm cloud.

Bulat and Sheele, still adjusting to their new allies, followed close behind. Bulat's sharp gaze swept across the unfamiliar halls, taking in the strategic advantage the location offered—a sturdy mansion, far removed from the chaos of the Capital, yet not so isolated as to be completely off the radar. Sheele, on the other hand, clutched Extase close to her chest, her mind still lingering on the brutal encounters that had nearly cost her life. She couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in her gut, but she had faith that this alliance, strange as it was, might just give them the edge they needed against the Empire's forces.

Spy, ever the orchestrator, wasted no time in gathering everyone in the war room. The dimly lit space carried a sense of urgency, maps and scattered documents detailing previous Imperial movements pinned to the walls. With a flick of his wrist, Spy pulled a cigarette from his case, lighting it with a casual elegance that betrayed none of the chaos they had just escaped from. He took a long drag before exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

"Now, let us get down to business," he said, placing both hands on the table. "The Jaegers. Our new... problem."

Sheele and Bulat exchanged glances. They were already well aware of Seryu Ubiquitous and her unhinged sense of justice, but the others? Those names were foreign to them.

Spy's sharp eyes flickered toward them. "I take it you are familiar with only one of zem?"

Sheele shuddered at the mention of Seryu, memories of their fateful encounter rushing back like a flood. "That lunatic is still out there?" she whispered, her voice barely concealing the tremor beneath it.

The last time she had faced Seryu, it had nearly been the end of her. She could still remember the crazed glint in Seryu's eyes, the way she cackled about 'justice' as she sicced that monstrous dog-beast, Koro, upon her and Mine. No matter how many times they struck it down, the creature kept coming, its body regenerating in grotesque ways that defied logic. Then there was Seryu herself—relentless, unyielding, her prosthetic arm revealing hidden weapons at every turn. Sheele had fought with everything she had, but it hadn't been enough. In the end, she had been captured, left to rot in the Empire's grasp until Spy's intervention had changed her fate.

Sheele's grip tightened on Extase. The past was behind her, but the fear still lingered. This time, if she faced Seryu again, she would not be the one left bleeding in the dirt.

"She's more than out there," Spy confirmed. "She's a part of zis new special task force, hand-picked by Esdeath herself." He tapped the table, bringing attention to the parchment he unrolled before them. Each section was dedicated to a member of the Jaegers, sketched in unsettling detail.

Bulat furrowed his brows as his eyes fell upon a particular name. "Wave... He's got an Imperial Arms?"

"Ah, oui." Spy gave a slow nod. "Grand Chariot. A fine piece of work, modeled after your very own Incursio."

Bulat's gaze hardened, his arms crossing. "A rival Incursio user... This'll be interesting."

"Interesting is one way to put it," Sniper muttered from the corner, his rifle leaned against his shoulder. "Bloke's strong, but from what we've seen, green. Not nearly as seasoned as you."

Spy smirked. "Zat's where we take advantage." He gestured toward the next portrait. "Zen we have Kurome. A master of necromantic combat. Her Teigu allows her to resurrect her fallen enemies and use zem as puppets."

His smirk deepened as he tapped the parchment with a finger. "And here is a most interesting detail. Kurome is not just any Imperial assassin—she is Akame's sister."

A sharp silence followed his words. Sheele's eyes widened slightly, while Bulat's expression darkened. The revelation hung heavy in the air.

Spy continued smoothly. "I confirmed it myself from dossiers I acquired during my little... excursion into Esdeath's personal quarters." His tone was casual, but the implication was clear—he had risked much to gather this intelligence. "Zhey were raised together, trained together, but Kurome remained loyal to the Empire. Zhey are two sides of zhe same coin."

"She's Akame's sister?" Sheele repeated, as if the words didn't quite make sense. "That's... going to complicate things."

Bulat exhaled sharply. "If they're that close in skill, we should assume she's every bit as deadly as Akame."

Sheele's lips pressed into a tight line. "That's... disturbing."

"Aye, sounds like some bloody witchcraft," Demoman scoffed, shaking his head. "What else we got?"

Spy's fingers moved next to a sharp-looking man with glasses. "Dr. Stylish. A mad scientist obsessed with modification. His experiments turn people into monstrous abominations. He is... resourceful, if not a bit flamboyant."

He tapped the parchment again, emphasizing the importance of the next detail. "His Teigu, Perfector, grants him complete control over his own body's structure, allowing him to rapidly enhance himself or adapt to combat situations. He can stretch, harden, or even mutate his limbs at will."

Spy exhaled a puff of smoke. "In other words, he is not just a scientist—he is also his own greatest experiment. Fighting him means dealing with unpredictable biological modifications in real-time."

Engineer, who had been silent until now, tilted his hat back. "Modified soldiers, huh? That's gonna be a problem if they're enhanced with something nasty."

Medic adjusted his gloves, his grin widening in a way that made the room slightly uneasy. "Ah, but zhis is fascinating! Human augmentation—if done correctly—can push ze body beyond its natural limits! I vould love to see what kind of modifications zhis Dr. Stylish has done. Perhaps even improve upon zhem!"

Spy rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I am sure you vould. But let us not forget zat his modifications are not voluntary. Zese are people turned into grotesque weapons."

Medic scoffed. "Bah! A shame to waste such potential on brute force alone."

Engineer sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, doc, I don't care how 'fascinatin'' you think it is, if they've been turned into somethin' inhuman, we're gonna have to find a way to shut 'em down fast."

Spy nodded. "And zat is why we need to be prepared. Dr. Stylish is not just a scientist—he is a tactician. His creations will not simply charge at us mindlessly."

"Oh, I assure you, zey are," Spy remarked. "Zen, we have Run. Agile, aerial combatant, and a master of battlefield deception. His Teigu, Mastema, grants him the ability of flight and allows him to reflect incoming attacks back at his opponents with precise timing. A graceful fighter, yet highly unpredictable. His movements in the air make him a difficult target, and his ability to redirect enemy strikes forces caution in direct engagements."

Scout huffed, kicking his feet up on the table. "So, what? Some trickster with wings? Pfft, ain't nothin' special. I'll clip 'em easy."

Soldier, however, slammed his fists onto the table with a wide, almost manic grin. "A foe who soars through the skies, using the very air as his battlefield? Ha! This will be a glorious battle! I shall bring him crashing down like a faulty zeppelin!"

"And finally," Spy's hand landed on the last portrait, depicting a man in a heavy coat with a mask, "Bols. Our heavy artillery. Slow, but devastating. His Teigu, Rubicante, is a flamethrower capable of unleashing powerful, widespread fire attacks, incinerating anything in its path. Despite his fearsome weapon, he is surprisingly kind—a devoted husband and father, known for his gentle nature off the battlefield."

The room fell silent for a beat.

Heavy blinked. "Kind?"

Spy gave a nonchalant shrug. "A devoted husband and father."

Heavy considered the information carefully, his thick fingers drumming against the table. A warrior who wielded fire, yet carried kindness in his heart? It was a contradiction that unsettled him. He respected strength, but he also respected honor. Fighting a man like Bols, someone who did not revel in destruction but carried it as a burden, would not be like facing a bloodthirsty killer.

A pause. Then Heavy let out a slow nod of approval. "Hnh. I will not enjoy fighting him."

Sheele and Bulat exchanged glances at Heavy's reaction. Sheele, who had grown used to the Mercs' bluntness, found herself intrigued by Heavy's hesitation. Bulat, however, understood it. Warriors like them fought for something, but Bols? Bols was a man who carried his duty like a cross, and that made him all the more dangerous.

"Zat makes one of us," Spy quipped before stepping back and letting the information settle in.

The Mercs began murmuring amongst themselves, debating strategies, weighing strengths and weaknesses. How do you deal with a necromancer? What's the best way to counter illusions? Is there a way to get rid of Dr. Stylish's creations without too much collateral damage?

Then, in the midst of all the planning, Heavy leaned back in his chair and summed it all up in one sentence.

"One has guns. One is crazy. One is ice woman. One is annoying."

The room went silent before laughter erupted, breaking the tension for just a moment.

Spy smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Ah, Heavy. Always zhe poet."


Thirty minutes had passed since the strategic debrief in the main hall, and the energy within Aria's Mansion had already shifted. While most of the mercenaries had dispersed to their own stations, Bulat made his way to the heart of the REDs' innovation—R&D. The distinct sounds of clanging metal, the hum of experimental machinery, and the faint scent of oil and gunpowder filled the air.

The workshop was a blend of controlled chaos, where blacksmiths hammered away at raw iron, craftsmen meticulously worked on the fine details of intricate mechanisms, and engineers moved between stations, adjusting schematics and overseeing production. Despite the madness, every worker moved with precision, bound by an unspoken rhythm that kept the gears of war turning.

At the center of it all stood Engineer and Medic, deep in discussion over a set of blueprints spread across a heavy, oil-stained workbench. Engineer was carefully adjusting the angles of a mechanical arm on paper, while Medic enthusiastically sketched modifications with quick, precise strokes. The room hummed with the soft buzz of electric tools, and the occasional sparks from welding torches illuminated their intense focus. The moment Bulat stepped inside, his presence disrupted their rhythm, and the two turned toward him, curiosity flickering across their faces like embers in the forge.

Bulat took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the organized chaos of the workshop. He had always been a warrior, one who met the enemy with steel and unyielding resolve. But this war was different—raw strength alone wouldn't be enough. He had seen too many good people fall, too many comrades fight with outdated, inferior weapons. If he wanted to protect those who stood beside him, he had to ensure they had the best tools possible.

With newfound determination, he stepped forward. "I want to learn everything you know," he declared, his voice steady, filled with conviction. "If we're fighting a war, I want to be the one making the weapons."

Engineer adjusted his goggles and let out a low whistle. "Well, partner, that's a mighty big task you're settin' for yourself." He reached behind him, grabbing a wrench and tossing it into Bulat's waiting hand. "Hope you like gettin' your hands dirty."

Medic, on the other hand, seemed positively delighted by the idea. His grin stretched wide as he clapped his hands together. "Ah, wunderbar! A warrior with a passion for creation! Zhis, my friend, is where science and violence meet!"

Bulat turned the wrench over in his hand, feeling the weight of it, before nodding. "Show me what I need to do."

Engineer wasted no time, leading Bulat to a workbench stacked with half-assembled firearms and mechanical components. "First thing's first—ya gotta understand the basics. Every weapon's got three key elements: structure, function, and reliability. If one of those ain't solid, the whole thing's junk."

He demonstrated by picking up a disassembled revolver, effortlessly putting its pieces together in a practiced motion. "Guns ain't much different from a good blade. Balance, weight distribution, and craftsmanship all come into play. Try takin' this apart and puttin' it back together."

Bulat rolled up his sleeves, carefully following Engineer's lead. It took him a few tries, but soon, he was able to reassemble the weapon smoothly. Engineer nodded in approval. "Good. Now let's move on to some real handiwork."

They spent the next few hours moving between different stations. Bulat learned how to forge and temper metal under the blacksmiths' guidance, his strength proving useful as he hammered glowing steel into shape. With the craftsmen, he practiced refining the details, carving precise grooves into weapon frames for better handling. Field engineers showed him how to modify weapons for adaptability, like detachable barrels for sniper rifles or lightweight plating for added durability.

"This ain't just about makin' weapons," Engineer said as he welded together a modified Gatling gun, his voice steady over the crackle of sparks. "It's about makin' sure our people have the best damn tools to get the job done and make it back in one piece."

Bulat wiped the sweat from his brow, a determined smile forming. "Then let's make sure they have exactly that."

His enthusiasm only grew with each new discovery. He watched as Engineer welded together a modified Gatling gun, explaining the intricate cooling system that prevented overheating. He listened intently as Medic elaborated on the properties of different metal alloys, ensuring the durability of their armaments.

"This ain't just about makin' weapons," Engineer said, patting a massive steel-plated gauntlet he had been assembling. "It's about makin' sure our people have the best damn tools to get the job done and make it back in one piece."

Bulat grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Then let's make sure they have exactly that."

As the fires of the forge roared behind them, the warrior-turned-craftsman took his first steps into a new battlefield—one where every bolt, every blade, and every innovation could mean the difference between survival and destruction.

Nearby, one of the recruits—a wiry young man with soot-streaked hands and sharp eyes—froze mid-task, his gaze locking onto Bulat. His expression flickered between recognition and hesitation before he cautiously approached.

"You're... Bulat, aren't you?" the recruit muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen your face before... on wanted posters back in the Capital. Night Raid. They called you 'Bulat the Indomitable'—a warrior who never backed down, no matter the odds. Even the soldiers spoke of you with respect, saying you were one of the strongest the Empire ever had... before you defected.""

The surrounding workers fell silent, their eyes darting toward Bulat, waiting for his response.

Bulat met the recruit's gaze evenly, unflinching. "I was a soldier once, just like you. But I chose to fight for something bigger than the Empire's corruption. If that makes me a criminal in their eyes, so be it."

The recruit exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod. "Then I made the right choice leaving them behind. If you're here, fighting on this side, then maybe we have a real chance."

With that, the tension in the room eased, and the forge roared back to life once more.


The dim glow of candlelight flickered across the study as Spy sat at the desk, shuffling a deck of playing cards with effortless precision. The sharp click of the cards punctuated the silence, filling the room with a rhythm as smooth as the man himself. He had been waiting.

A soft knock came at the door. Without looking up, Spy smirked. "Come in."

Sheele hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, her hands clasped together in front of her. The hesitation was unlike a trained killer, yet it was a trait she had carried since the moment he met her. It was an odd contradiction—the woman who could slice through enemies like paper but fumbled with something as simple as social interaction.

Spy gestured toward the chair across from him. "Sit."

She did so, looking at him with a mixture of uncertainty and determination. "I want you to train me," she said at last. "Not just in combat, but in everything. In stealth, deception, efficiency. The way you fight—it's different from what I know. I want to learn."

Spy studied her for a moment, tapping a finger against the deck. "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said, his tone laced with nostalgia. "A woman with a gift for killing, yet a heart that was… far too kind for zhis line of work."

Sheele tilted her head. "Did she… survive?"

Spy chuckled, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke from his cigarette. "She thrived. And I intend for you to do the same. But if you want to survive in zhis world, you must be more than a blade. You must be a shadow, a whisper, a ghost."

Standing, he walked over to the bookshelf, pressing a hidden mechanism that caused the entire shelf to slide aside, revealing a concealed training area. The room beyond was dimly lit, filled with mannequins, training weapons, and hidden compartments. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and steel, a sanctuary built for the art of silent death.

"Stealth is not just about hiding in shadows," Spy began, rolling up his sleeves. "It is about presence—about knowing when to be seen and when to disappear. Right now, you are too… obvious. You move like a soldier, not an assassin. But you have instincts, I can see that. Zhis will be… interesting."

For the next few days, Sheele was put through grueling exercises. Spy pushed her past her limits, forcing her to move with silence, to blend into crowds, to strike without hesitation. He had her practice with disguises, making her slip into different personas, teaching her how to lie convincingly. He drilled her on patience, forcing her to sit still for hours, observing patterns of movement, learning how to anticipate actions before they happened.

"Assassination is not just about the kill," Spy told her. "It is about control. About making zhem believe zhey never saw you at all."

Sheele was made to stalk targets in the compound, trailing them without being noticed, slipping items from their pockets only to return them undetected. Spy introduced her to hidden weaponry—small blades laced into gloves, needles tucked into the seams of clothing, the art of striking where armor was weakest.

He tested her in high-pressure scenarios, ambushing her when she least expected it, forcing her to react with instinct rather than thought. She learned how to vanish in plain sight, using distractions, misdirection, and the natural flow of the crowd to erase her presence.

"You are learning," he admitted one evening. "One day, you will not need me to teach you anymore. But until then, we make you perfect."

"Confidence is key," he reminded her as she stumbled through her first impersonation. "If you hesitate, they will see it. You must believe you are who you say you are. Every lie must be truth to you."

Sheele listened intently, her usual absentmindedness replaced with razor-sharp focus. Slowly, she improved. She learned to mask her presence, to disappear at a moment's notice. Her strikes became more efficient, her movements calculated. Her clumsy nature never vanished entirely, but Spy molded it into something unpredictable—a tool rather than a weakness.

One particular night, Spy had her practice a live test. "Infiltrate zhe mess hall," he instructed. "Find me zhe item hidden among zhe mercs, and return unseen."

Sheele, dressed in a simple cloak, hesitated but nodded. She navigated through the halls with quiet determination, slipping past guards and blending into passing groups. She took note of their routines, the way they carried themselves. With careful precision, she mimicked their strides, their nonchalance. She found the hidden object—a small ornate dagger—planted near Engineer's workspace. Taking a deep breath, she retrieved it and slipped out unnoticed.

Spy raised an eyebrow as she returned, placing the dagger on his desk. "Not bad," he admitted. "You still have much to learn, but I see improvement."

Sheele smiled slightly, the first sign of confidence he had seen in her yet. "Thank you."

One evening, after a particularly exhausting session, Spy leaned back against the wall, watching her as she caught her breath. He exhaled a slow breath of smoke, nodding approvingly.

"With time," he murmured, almost to himself, "you could be our own little angel of death. But remember, Extase is your last resort. It is a weapon of finality, one that leaves no room for subtlety. Use it only when you have no other choice. An assassin must always have options, always have an escape. Do not let it define you—let it be your hidden ace."

Sheele blinked at him, then smiled. Not the smile of an innocent woman unaware of the world's horrors—but one who had found her purpose within them. Spy saw something new in her eyes—not just determination, but understanding. She was no longer just a killer; she was refining her craft, sharpening her instincts, and embracing the artistry of an assassin.