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

The hideout of Night Raid was dimly lit, the flickering glow of a lantern casting long shadows against the wooden walls. The air was tense—partly from the exhaustion of another mission completed, but mostly due to the unexpected turn of events.

Najenda sat at the head of the table, her one remaining eye studying the assassins before her. Her mechanical arm rested on the armrest of her chair as she took a slow drag from her cigar. The silence stretched as she waited for them to speak.

Leone was the first to break it. "Well, that could've gone smoother," she muttered, leaning back in her seat with arms crossed. "By the time we got to the estate, the target was already dead."

"Not just dead—executed," Lubbock added, adjusting his glasses. "Gunshot to the head. Wasn't us, and it sure as hell wasn't the Empire. And it wasn't just her, either. Her guards were taken out with clinical precision—silent, efficient kills. No unnecessary damage."

Leone frowned. "And then there was the warehouse. We found two more bodies inside. One was a girl, already dead before the mercs even got there. But the other... he was barely hanging on. That doctor-looking guy must've done something because the moment we got close, he was gone too."

Lubbock shook his head. "There was a struggle before the kill, though. Someone fought for their life in there. Blood on the walls, shattered furniture. Whatever happened, it wasn't a clean job from the start."

Leone exhaled. "And the worst part? They just walked away like it was just another night of work."

Najenda exhaled a puff of smoke. "Then who?"

Akame, ever composed, spoke next. "They were professionals. The bodies inside the warehouse weren't just casualties; they were cleaned up, like someone didn't want to leave a mess. This wasn't a random act of violence."

Mine scoffed, resting Pumpkin against her shoulder. "Tch. They beat us to the kill, but not before we got a good look at them. A bunch of mercenaries, dressed weirdly—didn't recognize them from the Capital's usual forces."

"Not Empire agents, not Revolution allies," Najenda mused. "A third party, then. You're sure they weren't hired by someone else to eliminate Aria?"

"Unlikely," Akame answered. "They weren't acting like assassins sent on a contract. One of them—tall, well-dressed, fought like a duelist—was engaged in combat with a swordsman. And then there was the doctor. When we arrived, we saw him leaving the warehouse, carrying some kind of medical equipment. Whatever their goal was, they had more than just Aria in mind."

Leone stretched. "And the other guy? Dressed in red, loud, and cocky as hell. Looked like he belonged in a circus more than a battlefield, but I'm telling you, he was dangerous."

Najenda narrowed her eye. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Akame nodded. "When we reached the estate, we heard gunfire. By the time we made it inside, we found a young man standing over Aria's body, still gripping the revolver he used to kill her. He was exhausted, shaken. Whatever had happened, he made the choice himself."

Leone smirked. "That's when we saw the others. The duelist—tall, wearing a suit, quick on his feet—was watching him closely, like he was testing him. Then there was the loudmouth, the one in red. Looked like he could barely stand still, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. The last one was the doctor. He came out of the warehouse like he had finished an experiment. Didn't even glance at the girl's body—he was focused on something else."

Najenda took another slow drag of her cigar. "So they weren't after Aria. She was just in the way."

Lubbock frowned. "If that's the case, then what were they really after?"

Akame's expression darkened. "The doctor had entered the warehouse before the execution. When he came out, he had medical equipment and a strange vial in his hand. Inside, we found bodies. Most were dead, but one young man had only just passed. Whatever the doctor was doing, it had something to do with him."

Najenda tapped her fingers against the table. "They sound like nothing we've encountered before. Keep an eye out. If they're players in this war, we need to know whose side they're on."

Leone let out a sigh. "So, what now? Target's already dead, and our mystery mercs are still out there."

Najenda took another slow drag of her cigar. "We proceed as planned. The mission was a success, even if we weren't the ones to finish it. But we can't afford unknowns. Gather whatever information you can on these mercenaries. If they're enemies, we eliminate them. If they're potential allies…" She exhaled a trail of smoke. "We'll decide when the time comes."

The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of the mission settled. Night Raid had dealt with killers before—but this was different. These weren't just killers.

They were something else entirely.

The streets of the Capital were alive with their usual chaos—merchants shouting over one another, their voices hoarse with desperation as they hawked wares to indifferent passersby. Beggars reached out with trembling hands, their pleas ignored by the well-dressed elite who strode past without so much as a glance. Soldiers patrolled with an air of arrogance, their eyes scanning the crowds not for threats, but for any excuse to exert their authority. The air carried the clashing scents of freshly baked bread and the pungent stench of unwashed bodies, a stark contrast that mirrored the divide between the powerful and the powerless. Every corner seemed to hide another injustice, and yet, the city functioned as if this was the natural order of things.

Scout, Spy, and Tatsumi moved through the crowd, each adapting in their own way.

Spy, ever the phantom, walked with a calculated ease, his sharp gaze flickering toward key figures—officials in embroidered robes, guards gripping their spears with false discipline, and nobles too enraptured by their own excess to notice the predator in their midst. He memorized their faces, noted their movements, dissected their habits with an assassin's precision. Weaknesses were everywhere. One noble favored his left leg, suggesting an old injury. A captain of the guard frequently glanced over his shoulder, betraying paranoia. A merchant flinched whenever a soldier passed, revealing a past encounter that had left scars beyond the visible. Even in a city this large, power and fear dictated every interaction, and Spy studied both as though they were fine art.

Scout, in contrast, thrived in the open. He weaved through the streets as if they were his own backyard, tossing quick jokes and flashing easy grins at vendors and commoners alike. A shared laugh here, a well-placed insult there—it didn't take long for lips to loosen. Within minutes, he was collecting whispers like a seasoned pickpocket. The nobility's latest scandals, a string of recent disappearances, soldiers demanding "protection fees" from struggling shopkeepers—it was all information, and Scout took to gathering it as naturally as breathing. "Man, these people just can't shut up," he thought, smirking as another merchant complained about rising taxes. "A little sweet talk, and they spill everything. Bet I could ask 'em about their grandma's secret recipe, and they'd tell me that too."

He glanced over his shoulder at Tatsumi, who trailed behind with a stiff posture and wary eyes. "Guy looks like he's walkin' through a graveyard," Scout mused. "This ain't a battlefield, pal, it's a game. Lighten up, or you're gonna stand out like a sore thumb."

Tatsumi followed, observing, absorbing, and yet… feeling out of place.

Everything about their methods felt alien to him. Spy was a ghost, manipulating the shadows with an unnerving calm, while Scout treated the city like a stage, playing his part with reckless charm. Tatsumi had always seen battle as a straightforward thing—an enemy stood before him, and he cut them down. Simple. Just. Honest. But here, in the streets of the Capital, justice was not delivered with a sword. Here, the battlefield was unseen, and the weapons were deception, manipulation, and patience.

He clenched his fists. Was this really what it took to fight corruption? If so, what did that make him? He had come to the Capital to fight for his fallen friends, to cut through the lies and expose the truth. But now, he was learning that the truth itself was buried under layers of deceit. Could he ever be as comfortable with this kind of warfare as Spy and Scout were? Did he even want to be?

"See, pal? Ain't so hard," Scout remarked as he rejoined the group, his usual cocky grin plastered across his face. "You just gotta act like ya belong."

Spy, without breaking stride, adjusted his cufflinks and cast Tatsumi a sideways glance. "And that, mon ami, is where the real war is won. Knowledge. Not just brute strength."

Tatsumi said nothing. The city was rotten—he had always known that. But now, he was beginning to understand that cutting out the rot wasn't as simple as drawing his sword. It required precision. It required patience. And worst of all, it required playing the same game as the corrupt—at least, until the time was right to strike.

The trio moved through the crowded streets; their senses sharp despite the noisy bustle around them. Tatsumi walked a step behind, still pondering the moral tightrope they had been walking when Spy's voice, low and smooth, cut through his thoughts.

"Over there."

Tatsumi followed his gaze and spotted the man in question—a lone messenger hurrying through the streets, his posture rigid, his eyes darting left and right like a trapped rat. Clutched tightly in his hand was a small, sealed letter, the kind that reeked of importance. The kind that carried secrets.

"Guy's actin' shadier than a back alley dealer," Scout muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Betcha he's up to somethin'."

Spy didn't respond. He was already moving.

Tatsumi barely had time to process before the trio maneuvered through the crowd, subtly herding the messenger into a narrowing side street. The moment the man realized he was being corralled, panic flashed across his face. He spun on his heel, ready to bolt—

But Spy was faster.

With a flourish of his hand, he slipped in behind the messenger, his presence as smooth as a shadow. A single, effortless movement later, and a knife was pressed lightly against the man's ribs. Not enough to wound. Just enough to warn.

"Shhh," Spy whispered silkily. "Not a sound, mon ami."

The messenger's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His hands, still gripping the letter, trembled.

"Nice an' easy, pal," Scout chimed in, stepping into view with his signature cocky smirk. "Hand it over, and nobody's gotta get hurt."

The messenger hesitated, his grip tightening around the sealed request as though his life depended on it. His breathing was uneven, his eyes darting wildly between the three men blocking his escape. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked gasps, the fear evident in the way his fingers trembled against the parchment.

"Ah, come now," Spy continued smoothly, his knife pressing just a fraction harder, enough to send a clear message. "Is this piece of paper truly worth dying over?"

The messenger didn't answer, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The narrow alley suddenly felt suffocating, the towering buildings closing in on him. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He wanted to run. He wanted to fight. But deep down, he knew neither option would save him.

Tatsumi, watching from the side, felt his stomach churn. The scene before him felt… wrong. It wasn't an act of heroism—it was an ambush. A calculated, practiced ambush. It didn't sit right with him, but before he could dwell on it, Spy made his move.

A flick of the wrist. A blur of motion.

By the time the messenger realized what had happened, his hands were empty. Spy held the sealed request between his gloved fingers, examining it with an air of disinterest, as if it were a mere trinket instead of a potential death sentence for someone.

"Merci," Spy said smoothly.

The messenger swallowed hard, his face drained of color. He knew struggling was pointless.

Scout reached out, giving the man a light pat on the shoulder. "See? Ain't so bad. You still got all your fingers."

The messenger didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't even blink.

Tatsumi looked at the man, then at his companions. For all the messenger's fear, he wasn't the one who frightened Tatsumi most in that moment. It was the realization that, to Spy and Scout, this was just business as usual. And perhaps even more unsettling—how effortless it had all been.

Spy unfolded the letter with practiced ease, his gloved fingers barely making a sound against the parchment. Sunlight filtered through the narrow gaps between the buildings, casting broken beams of light into the alleyway as he scanned the contents. His expression remained unreadable, but the sharp glint in his eyes told Tatsumi that whatever was written inside was of significant interest.

Scout, leaning over Spy's shoulder, whistled. "Well, well… looks like somebody wants Gamal and Captain Ogre six feet under." He snickered. "Can't say I blame 'em."

Tatsumi stiffened at the mention of the names. He had heard about Captain Ogre—an arrogant brute who abused his power and terrorized civilians. But Gamal… that was a name he wasn't familiar with. Who was he? Another corrupt official? A man deserving of death? Or was this just a matter of politics—people in power wiping each other out for personal gain? The thought unsettled him.

The messenger, still trapped between them, let out a shaky breath. His posture was stiff, his hands clenching and unclenching as though debating whether to make a desperate run for it. Spy, without looking up, casually flicked his knife between his fingers—a subtle, unspoken warning.

"Tell me, mon ami," Spy murmured, folding the letter neatly and slipping it into his coat. "Who sent this?"

The messenger's lips parted, but no words came. He cast a glance at Tatsumi, perhaps hoping for mercy, but found only hesitation in his eyes.

"L-look, I don't know!" the man stammered. "I was just given the letter and told to deliver it! That's it! I swear!"

Spy hummed, his expression skeptical. "A shame. I was hoping for a more useful answer."

Scout cracked his knuckles and leaned in. "C'mon, pal. Ain't that hard. You're a messenger, yeah? Means you gotta know who's sendin' what, where, and why." His grin widened, all sharp teeth and mischief. "Or maybe you wanna see how fast I can break your nose?"

The messenger paled, shaking his head furiously. "N-no! I—I mean, I wasn't told much! Just that it came from someone inside the military!" He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "They didn't give names, I swear on my life!"

Spy tilted his head, considering. The man was terrified, but was he lying? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, he was of no further use.

Tatsumi stood to the side, his arms stiff at his sides. He felt a knot form in his stomach as he watched Spy and Scout work. Their movements were too easy, their threats too casual. This wasn't just a mission for them—it was routine. To them, shaking down a man in a sunlit alley was no different than bartering at a market stall. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Just cold efficiency.

Back in the village, things were simpler. There were good people and bad people. Enemies and allies. But here, in the Capital, the lines blurred. Tatsumi had always thought of himself as a warrior fighting for justice, but standing here, watching this man tremble under their gaze, he wondered if he was becoming something else entirely. And then there was the matter of the targets. Was this assassination truly justice, or was it merely another power struggle playing out in the shadows?

"Very well," Spy said at last, slipping his knife back into his sleeve. The tension in the alley shifted instantly, though the messenger barely seemed to register it, his breaths still coming in quick, uneven gasps.

"So, uh…" Scout jabbed a thumb at him. "What're we doin' with this guy?"

"We let him go," Spy replied simply.

Tatsumi blinked. "What?"

"Mon cher, if we silence every messenger, people start asking questions. Let him leave, let him deliver his message." Spy smirked, tapping his coat where the original letter had been. "After all, it is still 'on its way,' no?"

The messenger looked between them, confusion warring with relief. "Y-you're letting me go?"

Spy straightened his tie and gestured to the open street behind him. "Do be on your way. And next time, try not to look so suspicious. It attracts the wrong kind of attention."

The man didn't need to be told twice. He turned and bolted, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleyways as fast as his legs could carry him.

Tatsumi exhaled, tension still lingering in his shoulders. He had thought he would feel relief, but he didn't. Instead, he felt a gnawing unease settle deep in his chest. It wasn't just the way Spy and Scout handled things—it was the way he had stood by and let it happen. A quiet part of him wondered how much more of this he could endure before it started to feel normal.

"So," Scout said, stretching. "Now what?"

Spy pulled out the letter's duplicate, the one he had prepared while the messenger was distracted and held it up against the sunlight. "Now, we see where this little request leads."