Reliable Excavation & Demolition: A Rotten World, and Pure Chaos

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth, the distant hum of crickets the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Moonlight barely filtered through the dense canopy of trees, casting jagged shadows along the forest path.

Aria ran, her breath ragged, her silk dress torn and caked with dirt. Twigs snapped beneath her frantic footsteps as she stumbled forward, her once-pristine composure reduced to sheer panic. The image of her guards—her protectors—falling one by one flashed in her mind. Those two demons had cut them down effortlessly. Now, she was alone.

Somewhere behind her, barely audible but impossible to ignore, a soft rustling followed her erratic movements. She dared not look back.

Her heart pounded like a war drum. She could feel them. Watching. Stalking.

Aria choked back a sob as she spotted the familiar iron gate ahead. Relief surged through her veins, pushing her exhausted legs forward. Beyond that gate was her house, her sanctuary. If she could just make it inside—

She threw herself at the gate, nearly fumbling with the latch in her desperation. With a sharp creak, the gate swung open, and she bolted toward the grand yet foreboding mansion that loomed in the clearing.

The heavy wooden doors gave way as she burst inside, slamming them shut behind her. Chest heaving, she pressed her back against the door, struggling to catch her breath. Her hands trembled as she reached for the lock, twisting it into place with a loud click.

Safe.

For the first time since the massacre began, she allowed herself to breathe. They wouldn't get her here.

A floorboard creaked.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her head toward the darkened hallway.

The candlelight flickered.

Then, a whisper, smooth and mocking, drifted through the air.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle."

Her blood ran cold.

A gloved hand snaked over her shoulder, fingers barely grazing her collarbone. Aria screamed, spinning away from the door, but she was too slow. A figure emerged from the darkness—a man clad in a pinstripe suit, his piercing eyes gleaming beneath a balaclava.

Spy.

He didn't need to lunge. He didn't need to strike. His mere presence sent her scrambling backward, her legs nearly giving out beneath her.

Then, another voice, thick with an accent she didn't recognize, spoke from somewhere else in the room.

"Zhis is where ze trail ends, fraulein."

Her breath hitched as she spotted the second figure standing near the open doorway to the warehouse. The dim candlelight cast a haunting glow on his blood-red coat, the reflection of his glasses hiding his expression.

Medic.

Two predators, their movements precise, their demeanor composed.

Aria's throat tightened as she realized the horrifying truth.

She wasn't safe.

She was trapped.

The night was thick with silence, save for the distant chirping of insects and the rustling of leaves as a soft breeze passed through the trees. The moon, half-hidden behind wisps of clouds, cast a dim glow over the eerie estate standing in the middle of the forest. The once-grand structure now loomed like a tomb, its presence unsettling in the dead of night.

Panting from the long sprint, Tatsumi arrived at the scene, his heart hammering in his chest. His grip tightened around his sword as he scanned the area. Then, his eyes locked onto two unfamiliar figures near the estate's entrance.

One of them, a tall, lean man in a sharp suit, stood with an air of unsettling calm, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. The other, broader and clad in a long white coat, loomed over the entrance, his unsettling grin stretching too wide to be natural.

Tatsumi stiffened.

Who the hell were these people?

His instincts screamed at him—they were dangerous. He had never seen them before, yet the way they carried themselves, so effortlessly composed in the dark of night, sent a shiver down his spine. They didn't look like Imperial soldiers, nor did they resemble common bandits. No, they were something else entirely.

Were they waiting for him? Were they connected to Aria's family? The uncertainty sent a pulse of tension through his veins. He had no time to think.

They were standing in his way.

With a sharp breath, Tatsumi surged forward, sword flashing in the dim light.

The suited man—Spy—barely reacted, only tilting his head slightly, as if unimpressed. Then, at the last second, he shifted his weight and sidestepped the attack with effortless grace. Tatsumi's blade cut through empty air.

He barely had time to recover before he felt movement behind him.

Fast!

He spun just in time to see Spy, completely unharmed, standing where he had just been. He hadn't even heard the man move.

"Ah, zis is unexpected," Spy murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused.

Tatsumi gritted his teeth. He didn't care who they were or what they wanted. If they were standing between him and his goal, then he would cut them down.

He launched another attack, his sword slicing toward Spy's torso. But again, the man barely moved—just a subtle shift of his stance, and the blade missed him by inches.

The white-coated man—Medic—chuckled from the sidelines. "He has spirit, ja?" he mused, watching the exchange with an almost clinical curiosity.

Spy let out a sigh, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "Oui, but 'e lacks control."

They were mocking him.

Tatsumi's frustration flared. Tightening his grip, he faked another slash before twisting his body mid-motion, driving a powerful kick toward Spy's ribs.

This time, it connected.

Spy staggered back a step, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

Tatsumi didn't hesitate. Seizing the moment, he pivoted sharply and struck at the other man—Medic. The doctor's grin faltered for a split second before Tatsumi's fist crashed against his jaw with brutal force.

A sharp thud echoed through the night as Medic collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Spy straightened, exhaling as he rubbed his side where the kick had landed. His smirk returned, but the look in his eyes had changed—no longer amused but intrigued.

"Ah," Spy exhaled, adjusting his tie with deliberate slowness. "Perhaps I underestimated you."

Tatsumi didn't let him recover. Sword raised, pulse pounding, he rushed forward once more.

The dim glow of the moon barely reached the clearing, casting long, eerie shadows across the silent torture house. The sound of clashing metal and hurried footsteps echoed in the night as Spy and Tatsumi battled just outside. Their strikes were swift and relentless, steel meeting steel in a deadly dance of instinct and desperation. But amidst the chaos, another figure stirred.

A low groan slipped from Medic's throat as he stirred, his skull throbbing from the impact of Tatsumi's strike. He blinked rapidly, vision swimming, but the sharp scent of blood in the air cut through his daze like a scalpel.

The young fool had knocked him out. How rude.

With a grunt, Medic forced himself up, shaking off the dizziness. The distant clashing of blades outside told him the fight wasn't over, but his attention snapped toward something else—the heavy wooden door to the warehouse, bolted shut. A grotesque stench seeped from the cracks, thick with decay and suffering.

His lips curled. Ah. So, zis is vhere zey keep zeir little secrets.

Ignoring the skirmish outside, Medic took a step forward, then another, his boots crunching against the dirt. He stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders. Then, without hesitation, he reared back and slammed his foot into the door.

CRACK!

The hinges groaned. He kicked it again. CRACK. Wood splintered. With a final, forceful strike, the door crashed open, slamming against the wall with a hollow thud.

Darkness. And the unmistakable scent of death.

Medic stepped inside, his keen eyes adjusting quickly. The scene before him was grotesque—an artistry of suffering, but not the kind he enjoyed.

A girl—young, frail—hung limply from rusted chains, her body marred with deep lacerations. The life in her eyes had long since been extinguished. Ah. Too late for zat one.

On the ground, another figure twitched.

Ieyasu.

The boy barely clung to life, his breaths rattling in his chest. His skin was clammy, drenched in sweat and blood, his lips cracked from dehydration. Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his head.

"Ta…Tatsumi…?" His voice was weak, barely audible.

Medic crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to his pulse. Ahh, ze body fights, even vhen it knows it vill lose. Fascinating.

A giggle broke the silence.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Medic turned his head, gaze settling on the figure standing in the doorway.

Aria.

She smiled sweetly, hands folded behind her back like a child showing off a painting. "I was quite proud of my work. He was so stubborn at first, but they all break eventually."

Her eyes gleamed with amusement, expecting shock, horror, perhaps even rage from the doctor. But instead—

Laughter.

Low at first, then bubbling into a full, genuine cackle.

"Ohhh, mein Gott," Medic chuckled, wiping at his eye as if she had just told a delightful joke. "You call zis torture? Zese cuts—zey are too deep, too messy. Zat boy—his organs are failing. Zis is not 'breaking' someone, fraulein. Zis is just sloppy."

Aria blinked, caught off guard.

Medic sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Vhere is ze precision? Ze art? Ach, zis is amateur hour." He clicked his tongue. "And here I vas hoping to learn something new."

Ieyasu's breath hitched, a final, shuddering gasp.

His body went still.

Medic tilted his head, watching as the last flicker of life left the boy's eyes. Then, with a sigh, he stood, brushing off his coat.

"Ah vell. Zat answers zat."

Aria tilted her head, confused. "You don't seem… upset."

"Upset?" Medic blinked at her, then grinned, adjusting his glasses. "Oh, mein dear, I am delighted. Because now? I get to see how you break."

Aria stumbled backward, pressing herself against the cold, wooden wall of the torture house. Her once-pristine white dress was now stained with dirt, sweat, and the remnants of her own cruelty. She trembled, her breaths coming in short gasps, but there was nowhere left to run.

Spy loomed before her, his grip tightening around his revolver. The dim lantern light cast deep shadows over his sharp features, but his eyes—those piercing, calculating eyes—remained locked onto her with an intensity colder than death itself.

He had seen many people die. Killed many himself. But none of them had ever stirred the same level of disgust within him as this girl did. A pampered, sadistic wretch who played with lives like they were mere playthings. This was no battlefield. There was no honor in what she had done. No necessity. Just cruelty for the sake of it.

She was filth.

And filth needed to be disposed of.

A deep sigh escaped him, slow and deliberate, but the rage beneath his calm exterior was unmistakable.

Then, she laughed.

A broken, twisted sound that made even Spy stiffen slightly.

"I—I…" Aria's voice wavered before her lips curled into something grotesquely smug. "Yes, I did it." Her words dripped with venomous glee, her posture straightening as she clung to what little power she had left. "I tortured them. I made them scream. And I enjoyed every second of it."

Spy's fingers twitched around his gun.

Tatsumi flinched beside him, his face contorted with grief and rage, but Aria wasn't done. She turned her gaze to him, her smile widening as she twisted the knife further.

"Your precious friends? They were nothing more than toys to me."

Tatsumi's breath hitched. Spy didn't need to look at him to know what was happening inside the boy's head. The boiling anger. The helplessness. The crushing grief.

Spy had been there before.

He knew what it felt like to be powerless while someone else decided the fate of those you cared for. He had learned to steel himself against it long ago, burying those emotions under a carefully constructed façade. But Tatsumi…

The boy was still raw. Still bleeding inside. And Aria had just set fire to that wound.

Spy exhaled sharply. Enough.

He raised his revolver, his movements smooth and effortless despite the simmering rage coiling in his chest. His thumb cocked the hammer back with a cold, mechanical click.

Aria's smirk faltered.

"Non..." Spy muttered, his voice quiet, yet absolute. "I have heard enough."

He squeezed the trigger.

But before he could fire, the gun was ripped from his grasp.

Spy's eyes widened slightly as Tatsumi, his movements fueled by unrestrained fury, wrenched the revolver away. The boy's hands shook, his knuckles white as he pointed the weapon at Aria.

For a brief moment, Spy considered stopping him. He had seen what untrained hands did when given a weapon in the heat of rage—wild, desperate, ugly. But then he caught a glimpse of Tatsumi's expression.

It wasn't blind rage. It was pain. Grief.

And in that instant, Spy understood.

Tatsumi wasn't just killing her. He was making sure she would never hurt anyone else ever again.

Aria opened her mouth, whether to plead, to mock, or to scream—it didn't matter.

The crack of gunfire shattered the stillness of the night. A single shot—loud, final—echoed through the trees before fading into an eerie silence. The scent of blood and gunpowder lingered in the cold night air, mixing with the decay of the warehouse's horrors. Aria's lifeless body slumped to the floor, her once-arrogant expression frozen in terror. The crimson splatter on the walls was the only proof of her last moments.

Spy adjusted his gloves, his face unreadable beneath his balaclava. His gaze flickered between the corpse of the noble girl and the young warrior who had just pulled the trigger. Hmph. He had it in him after all.

Before anyone could say a word, a new presence made itself known.

A gust of wind carried the scent of steel and death. From the shadows, a group of figures emerged—silent, yet exuding an unmistakable aura of danger. Their crimson eyes gleamed in the moonlight, their movements precise and calculated.

Tatsumi turned toward them, his heart hammering against his ribs. His instincts screamed at him—these people were nothing like the corrupt nobles. They were something far worse.

A single figure led the way—a girl with raven-black hair and an emotionless gaze. Her red eyes locked onto Tatsumi, then flickered to Aria's corpse. She said nothing. She didn't need to.

Behind her, a towering man with blond hair leaned against his massive spear, exuding a relaxed yet deadly air. A pink-haired woman smirked, her eyes filled with amusement as she sized up the newcomers. A masked figure in a cloak stood nearby, observing quietly, while a small girl with teal pigtails grinned in unsettling excitement.

Night Raid had arrived.

The tension in the air thickened, the unspoken weight of their presence pressing down on the room like a storm about to break.

Then, from the opposite direction, another group approached.

Heavy boots crunched against the dirt. A cigarette ember flared in the darkness before being flicked away. The scent of gunpowder and metal carried on the wind.

The REDs had arrived.

Scout was the first to step forward, his bat lazily resting on his shoulder. "Damn, we missin' a party here or what?" he muttered, taking in the scene.

Sniper followed, his rifle slung over his back, eyes scanning the newcomers with quiet calculation. Medic walked beside him, rolling his shoulders, still sore from earlier. He barely spared a glance at Aria's body—he had seen far worse.

Spy remained where he was, his fingers brushing against his knife as he studied the approaching assassins. Their presence was unnatural—trained killers who moved with absolute confidence, unfazed by the bloodshed. He had seen their kind before, in the depths of war-torn battlefields, the kind of people who didn't hesitate.

Akame took a step forward, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her blade. "You are not from the Empire," she said, her voice even, yet carrying an edge that sent a shiver down Tatsumi's spine.

Spy chuckled, tilting his head. "Neither are you, mademoiselle."

A moment of silence passed. The only sounds were the whispering wind and the distant rustling of leaves. Two groups, both killers in their own right, now stood face to face.

No one moved.

A single wrong word, a twitch of the finger, and blood would be spilled once more.