Esdeath sat in the dimly lit war room of Shisuikan Fortress, her fingers drumming against the cold surface of the table. The flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows across the map-laden table, where the latest intelligence report lay unfurled before her. The contents of the parchment should have filled her with satisfaction. The location of Aria's mansion, where the elusive RED mercenaries were supposedly staging their operations, had been uncovered. It was an opportunity the Empire could not afford to pass up. A decisive blow, a potential turning point.

And yet, she felt uneasy.

Something was wrong.

She studied the report again, eyes narrowing. Too convenient. Too clean. The REDs were not fools. They had proven time and again to be resourceful, adapting swiftly to changing circumstances, never leaving behind an obvious weakness to be exploited. They were tacticians in their own right, improvising when needed, striking where it hurt most. If they had managed to evade Imperial forces this long, why would they suddenly allow themselves to be exposed now? The thought gnawed at her, an unease curling in the pit of her stomach. The timing was suspicious, the details too neat. This wasn't how skilled warriors operated. If they had been cornered, they would have done everything in their power to shift the balance, to create chaos rather than leave behind a clear trail.

Unless... they wanted to be found. Unless this was part of something far more intricate, a layered deception meant to steer them toward a battlefield of the enemy's choosing. Her grip on the parchment tightened as her mind raced through the implications. Was she already too late to counter it? Were they already caught within the threads of an unseen design? If the information was genuine, it meant the enemy had been careless, an oversight that did not align with their prior behavior. And if it wasn't... then it was deliberately placed in their hands, meant to lure them into a false sense of security. That was what unsettled her most—the possibility that they were already playing into the enemy's hands without realizing it.

A slow exhale left her lips as she set the parchment aside, her gaze drifting toward the large Imperial map on the wall. She traced the lines with her eyes, following the recorded movements of their forces. Every battle, every skirmish had been meticulously documented. The REDs had not won through brute strength alone; they had outmaneuvered, misled, and dismantled Imperial forces bit by bit. Could they afford another miscalculation? Her fingers curled into a fist.

"A trap," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely above a whisper.

Across the room, Budo stood with his arms crossed, watching her with keen eyes. Unlike the others, he was never one to challenge her decisions outright, but she could sense his concern. He had been watching her closely as of late, ever since...

"You suspect deception?" he finally asked.

Esdeath exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tightening around the report. "Of course. The REDs are calculated, unpredictable, and they thrive on misdirection. They know how to manipulate, how to set bait, and how to make their enemies believe they are in control when, in truth, they are merely being led along."

She let the parchment fall onto the table with a dull slap. "This feels like one of their games. The question is not whether they are setting a trap—it is where the real threat lies. They have outmaneuvered us before, forcing us to react rather than dictate the battlefield. I refuse to let them seize control of the pace again."

Her eyes darkened as she straightened, placing both hands on the table. "If we strike as expected, we may walk straight into their hands. But if we hesitate too long, they will change the game before we even realize it. We need to determine not only what they want us to do—but what they would never expect."

Budo's frown deepened. He had long admired Esdeath's tactical mind, her ability to predict and dismantle enemy maneuvers before they fully formed. Yet, tonight, he sensed something different. There was an unfamiliar weight behind her words, a hesitation that did not belong to the woman he knew.

"You are not yourself," he said finally, his voice quieter than usual but no less firm.

Esdeath turned to him with a sharp glare, but Budo did not waver. The tension in the room thickened like ice creeping across glass. He knew the risk of speaking so plainly, yet he continued. "Your instincts remain sharp, but your priorities are shifting. Ever since..." He hesitated, unwilling to name the truth aloud. "Ever since the revelation, you have been different."

A silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken words. Esdeath had never feared battle, never second-guessed a war strategy. But now, within her, something precious was growing. Something fragile. It infuriated her to admit it, even to herself, but Budo was right.

It was not just about her anymore.

She looked away, her arms folding over her chest as she mulled over his words. Could she truly afford to march into battle as she always had? To throw herself into the heart of combat without hesitation? The thought left an unfamiliar, bitter taste in her mouth.

"I will lead the attack in your place," Budo continued, his voice firm, steady. He took a step closer, his imposing presence filling the space between them. "Your strength is undeniable, General, but the risk is too great. The enemy has already shown their cunning, and we cannot afford to gamble with everything at stake. You must remain here, with the Jaegers, and allow me to carry out the Emperor's will."

His tone, though respectful, left no room for argument. There was no hesitation in his words, no doubt in his conviction. He had fought alongside her long enough to recognize the weight behind her silence, the conflict she was unwilling to voice. But he also knew that a leader did not charge blindly into battle when the circumstances called for restraint. He would take that burden upon himself, even if it meant defying her instincts.

"You have always been the strongest among us," he continued, his voice unwavering, "but your strength must be wielded wisely. The Empire needs you—not as a warrior in the field, but as the force that holds it together. This battle must be won, but not at the cost of our greatest asset."

Esdeath's fingers twitched slightly, her jaw tightening as she absorbed his words. Her pride bristled at the suggestion that she should remain behind while others fought in her stead. And yet, deep down, she knew he was right. The war was shifting, and for the first time, she was forced to consider a reality where she could not fight with reckless abandon. It was an infuriating thought, but an unavoidable one.

A heavy silence stretched between them before she finally exhaled. "Very well," she conceded, her voice colder than ice. "But see to it that you do not disappoint me, Budo."

Esdeath's jaw tightened. She was not a woman accustomed to standing on the sidelines. The thought of letting someone else lead in her place was almost unbearable. But the Empire could not afford recklessness. If this was truly a trap, both she and Budo marching into it could spell disaster.

She turned away, crossing the room toward the large window overlooking the fortress courtyard. Beyond the towering stone walls, the Empire's banners fluttered in the wind, the symbol of their rule unwavering despite the growing rebellion. It was a reminder of the war still to be won.

Minutes passed before she finally spoke. "Very well."

Budo gave a respectful nod, relief barely concealed beneath his disciplined expression. "I will not fail."

Esdeath's fingers ghosted over the hilt of her sword, her grip tightening as her mind raced with possibilities. If this was the REDs' game, she would be watching, waiting. Calculating her next move.

"You had better not," she said, her voice cold as the ice she wielded. "Because if you do, I'll be the one to clean up the mess."


The air in the grand chamber was thick with the scent of fine wine and roasted meat, remnants of yet another indulgent feast. The opulence of the room, from the golden chandeliers to the lavish silk curtains, contrasted sharply with the seething fury of the man seated upon the throne-like chair at the head of the table.

Prime Minister Honest's plump fingers trembled with rage as he gripped the parchment before him. The words scrawled on the report detailed the latest blow against the Empire—another of his prized holdings lost, another force obliterated by the growing menace of the RED mercenaries. His jaw clenched as his beady eyes darted over the lines again, as though rereading them would change the damning truth.

"They mock me," Honest growled, his voice quivering with uncontained fury. "These pathetic, insignificant vermin dare to strike at my Empire, my rule?" His fingers clenched, crumpling the parchment before he tossed it aside. The golden rings on his fingers clinked against each other as he pounded the table, causing half-empty goblets of wine to tremble. "I will not tolerate this! I will not allow them to make a mockery of me!"

A tense silence followed, disturbed only by the nervous shuffling of lesser officials along the chamber's edges. None dared to speak, let alone challenge the wrath of the man who ruled the Empire from the shadows. Some lowered their heads, avoiding his gaze altogether, while others seemed to shrink into their embroidered robes, hoping to escape notice.

Budo, the towering Grand General of the Empire, remained unmoved by Honest's tantrum. Clad in his imposing armor, his presence alone radiated unwavering discipline. Though a loyal soldier, his sharp eyes did not miss the dangerous recklessness in the Prime Minister's words. The empire's resources, already stretched thin due to mounting resistance, could not afford another blunder.

"Prime Minister," Budo spoke at last, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "A direct assault without proper reconnaissance is unwise. If these mercenaries are as calculated as our reports suggest, then this could be a trap. Rushing in blindly will only cost us more than we can afford."

Honest wheeled on him, his face turning red with indignation. "Are you suggesting we sit idly by and allow them to take what is mine?" He waved his hand dismissively, his lips curling into a sneer. "I will not be made a fool of, Budo. The people must see that these insurgents will not be tolerated. If we do nothing, we invite more resistance!"

Budo's jaw tightened. There was no reasoning with this man when he was consumed by his rage. Logic and tactics meant little to him when his pride was wounded. And yet, Budo's duty remained unchanged—to uphold the stability of the Empire. If he did not lead this assault, another, less capable officer would, and that would only result in needless slaughter.

Honest's gaze narrowed as he stepped closer, his breath reeking of the last feast. "Are you hesitating, General? Are you afraid?" His voice took on a cruel edge, knowing full well that Budo's sense of duty would not allow such an accusation to go unanswered.

Budo exhaled sharply, suppressing his irritation. He knew the Prime Minister's games. Honest wanted blind obedience, but Budo would not be manipulated so easily. If I refuse, he will send another general—one of the incompetent lapdogs who will march thousands to their deaths.

"I understand, Prime Minister," Budo said at last, his voice firm but controlled. "I will lead the attack personally. But I will need full command authority over our forces. If we are to strike, we must strike with precision, not reckless abandon."

Honest's fury melted into a twisted grin. "Good. Mobilize the full might of the Imperial Army. I want those mercenary scum wiped off the face of the earth."

The officials exchanged uneasy glances. Mobilizing the Imperial Army meant committing a significant portion of their forces—forces that could be better used to defend the capital or suppress rebellion in the outer territories. But none dared to voice their concerns.

Budo turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The battle ahead would not be a simple skirmish—it would be a war of survival. He had seen countless battles, and he knew a war of attrition when he saw one. The RED mercenaries were no mere bandits or rebels; they were trained killers, battle-hardened and unpredictable. If the Empire underestimated them again, it would cost them dearly.

And deep down, a part of him knew: if Honest's madness continued to dictate the Empire's actions, they were all marching toward ruin.