The Imperial Coliseum
At dawn, the Imperial Capital was flooded by a countless crowd. Citizens poured in from every district toward the coliseum, eager to witness the spectacle. The streets rang with excited chatter, nervous laughter, and the cries of street vendors.
The public execution of Tatsumi.
For many, it was not merely the death of a terrorist. It was proof that the Empire was regaining control—that Night Raid, that elusive shadow, could bleed like any other enemy.
When word spread that General Budo himself would carry out the execution, enthusiasm reached its peak. The coliseum trembled under the cheers, as if a victory had already been won.
At the center of the arena, a massive wooden cross had been raised. Tatsumi was bound to it, his body battered but his spirit still defiant. Despite the pain, he lifted his head, searching the stands for a sign—any spark of hope.
He knew.
Night Raid would come.
Or he would die knowing they had tried.
Budo entered the arena beneath thunderous applause. His imposing stature and the energy vibrating from his Teigu inspired as much fear as respect. He raised a hand, and silence slowly fell.
But at the exact moment he was about to deliver the fatal blow, something changed.
An explosion shook one of the coliseum entrances.
Then another.
Panic spread instantly through the crowd. Civilians rose screaming, trying to flee, trampling one another in total chaos. Dark silhouettes vaulted into the arena.
Night Raid was here.
Akame struck first, her crimson blade carving a deadly arc toward Budo. Leone and Mine followed, covering her movements with a coordinated storm of attacks.
The clash was immediate. Violent. Absolute.
Budo answered with crushing power, every strike of his Teigu sending shockwaves through the arena. The ground cracked, the stands trembled. For long minutes, neither side gained the upper hand.
Then Mine found an opening.
A gigantic beam of energy erupted from her weapon, striking Budo head-on. The imperial general tried to endure it, but the blast pierced armor and flesh alike. The colossus collapsed with a deafening crash.
General Budo was dead.
A stunned silence fell over the coliseum.
Seizing the moment, Akame severed Tatsumi's bonds. The members of Night Raid gathered around him, supporting him as he struggled to stand.
They had done it.
They had saved their comrade.
But the victory was short-lived.
Suddenly, the air changed.
An unnatural heat spread across the arena, as if the sun itself had drawn nearer. Night Raid felt a crushing pressure settle on their shoulders, a primal instinct screaming a warning.
They were no longer alone.
The great gates of the coliseum opened slowly.
A silhouette entered.
Anárion.
His immaculate white coat contrasted with the blood and rubble. Each step he took rang like a funeral bell. His gaze swept the arena, pausing for a moment on Budo's lifeless body, then on the assassins.
"At last, we meet, Night Raid. It's been a long time, Najenda."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Thank you for eliminating Budo. Thanks to you, the imperial army is now entirely under my command."
The words struck the assassins like a knife.
They understood their mistake immediately. They had dared this rescue because they believed Anárion was busy defending the walls against the Revolutionary Army.
He should not have been there.
Najenda clenched her teeth."You… What are you doing here? Did you abandon your army?"
A faint smile stretched the Ashen Phoenix's lips.
"My dear… do you truly believe I have no subordinates worthy of trust? In truth, I am certain my disciple is having fun right now, crushing your revolutionary allies."
A chill ran down Najenda's spine.
Southern Wall of the Imperial Capital
The Revolutionary Army was following Bradley's strategy to the letter.
The colossal mass of soldiers had been divided into smaller corps, each given a precise mission: besiege the outlying fortresses, cut supply routes, gradually isolate the Imperial Capital. These units had scattered in every direction, moving quickly to avoid a coordinated counteroffensive.
To prevent the Empire from reacting effectively, the largest contingent—nearly a third of the total force—remained concentrated before the southern wall. Its role was simple, but crucial: maintain constant pressure, draw the Ashen Phoenix's attention, and pin down as many imperial legions as possible.
General Hemi commanded that force.
For several days, the fighting had been relentless. The initial offensives had been massive and brutal, driven by enthusiasm and rage. But very quickly, Hemi understood the futility of such attacks.
His opponent saw everything.
Every frontal assault was anticipated. Every concentration of troops was countered before it even reached the ramparts. The imperial legions moved with terrifying precision, always appearing where they were least expected.
So Hemi adapted.
The great human waves were abandoned in favor of constant skirmishes—night attacks, ranged harassment, sabotage, feints. The goal was no longer to break the wall, but to wear down the defenders, to exhaust them mentally and physically.
And it worked.
Imperial soldiers began to show signs of fatigue. Rotations became more frequent. Reinforcements sometimes arrived late. Day by day, the tension around the Capital rose.
Bradley's plan was a success.
Then, without warning, everything shifted.
At dawn on a gray day, as Hemi prepared a new series of diversionary strikes, the imperial army suddenly changed its behavior.
The wall's side gates opened.
Defensive formations reorganized with unreal speed.
And for the first time since the siege began, the Empire attacked.
It was not a hesitant counterattack, but a methodical, brutal surge. Imperial legions poured out in tight ranks, supported by heavy units and specialized formations. Caught off guard, the revolutionaries were unable to reposition in time.
Hemi immediately sensed something was wrong.
This assault was nothing like what he had faced before.
The movements were different—more aggressive, faster—like another will now guided the imperial army.
The longer Hemi fought, the more he recognized the maneuvers unfolding before him: the strategic principles, the breaking lines, the attempted encirclements. At times, he even managed to counterattack effectively.
But the tactical shift… was too abrupt.
And then he understood.
Anárion was no longer commanding this army directly.
A new general was at work.
The battle rapidly became slaughter.
In only a few hours, the Revolutionary Army was shattered. Isolated units were surrounded and annihilated one after another. Rallying cries turned into screams of panic. Lines collapsed.
Most survivors fled, abandoning weapons and banners.
But their number was insignificant.
Soon Hemi found himself encircled, with only five bodyguards still alive. Among them was a Teigu user—a woman wielding two daggers with deadly precision. Around them, the ground was carpeted with bodies. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Revolutionaries and imperials mingled in bloody mud.
Then, suddenly… silence.
The imperial soldiers stopped attacking, holding the general and his guards within a tightening ring.
Hemi, gasping, didn't understand. Why stop now, when victory was already theirs?
The answer came at once.
Like Moses parting the waters, the imperial soldiers slowly stepped aside, forming a corridor in the center of the battlefield. A heavy metallic sound echoed.
A metal step—slow, weighty, almost funereal—crunching through mud and corpses.
Then he appeared.
The creature stood over two meters tall, but it was not his size that froze the blood—it was his shape. His body was lanky, gaunt, almost famished, as though flesh had been torn away and replaced with something else. Where living skin should have been, there was only a tangle of bone plates, ancient metal, and dead tissue.
His face was hidden behind an elongated mask carved like a misshapen skull. Greenish cracks ran along that macabre surface, leaking a sickly glow—nearly supernatural. From wide sockets shone two eyes of toxic green, their slit pupils like those of some ancient predator.
There was no humanity in that stare.
His armor seemed fused to him, as though it had grown from his bones. Jagged metal shards replaced parts of his ribcage, revealing an internal structure—artificial—animated by impious energy. With every movement, fragments of his torn, ragged black-and-red cloak drifted behind him like strips of dead flesh.
A white cape fell from his shoulders.
White.
Immaculate.
Not a speck of dust, blood, or mud stained it—as if the world refused to touch it. The contrast made his silhouette even more unreal, almost sacred in its horror.
His arms were long, disproportionate, jointed in an impossible way. Each hand had eight fingers—thin, bony—ending in metal claws.
Strapped to his back were two heavy swords, their blades broad and brutal, marked with imperial runes and symbols older still. At his belt hung two finer weapons, designed for speed and close-range carnage.
Every detail of him screamed the same obvious truth:
This being had not been born.
He had been forged.
At the sight, even the hardest veterans felt their courage falter. It was not the fear of a powerful enemy—it was the fear of a weapon of war, stripped of pity, stripped of limits.
Hemi understood then, with icy certainty, that the Ashen Phoenix did not merely command armies.
He created monsters.
"Rebels!Your army has been annihilated. Make peace with your gods, for you are living your final moments!Know, however, that I am not entirely merciless: I will grant you a warrior's death. Prepare yourselves!"
The last revolutionaries raised their weapons, knowing flight was impossible.
Hemi, despite the dread crushing his chest, found the strength to speak.
"W-What are you…?"
The being tilted his head slightly.
"I am General Grievous. Commander of the Second Legion in the service of Lord Anárion."
Grievous drew the two great swords from his back. At the signal, his soldiers struck their spears against the ground in unison, producing a deep rumble like war drums.
He lunged.
The charge was of unimaginable violence.
The rebels scattered at once, trying to encircle him. Grievous twisted his torso in an inhuman way, as if he had no joints at all. His blades became a storm of steel, deflecting every strike with monstrous precision.
The Teigu user vaulted over his defense, supernatural agility allowing her to avoid the blades. She aimed for his head—
But Grievous's right arm split in two.
A third arm burst forth and clamped around her throat, crushing it before she could even react. Her body hit the ground with a heavy thud.
The others hesitated.
Grievous used the instant to hurl the corpse toward Hemi, sending them both tumbling in the dust.
A swordsman launched a desperate charge.
Grievous caught him with his clawed left foot and slammed his head into the ground, crushing his skull into pulp.
The last three fighters attacked together.
But Grievous's arms multiplied again. Four blades. Four trajectories impossible to predict.
They died in seconds.
Hemi—paralyzed by fear and rage—attempted one final attack.
He failed.
Grievous approached, retracting his extra arms until only two remained. He seized Hemi by the throat and lifted him until their faces were level.
"ARRGH!"
"M-Monster… my comrades will avenge me! You will pay for all your crimes!"
A metallic laugh rang from behind the mask.
"Hahaha! Your revolution inspires only pity in me.You die for a cause you believe righteous… while you do not even know the identity of your true master. The usefulness of your little rebellion is now over."
A dry crack cut off the general's words.
Hemi's lifeless body dropped to the ground.