Imperial capital, Colosseum
Najenda surveyed the condition of her companions. All of them were exhausted from their clash with Budo. The fight had been brutally violent, and even the most seasoned among them struggled to hide the fatigue weighing down their bodies. The floor of the coliseum was still warm, steeped in lingering energy and spilled blood.
Mine in particular looked worse than the others—she had been forced to sacrifice her Teigu to kill the general. The young woman's gaze was empty, as though a part of her had been torn away along with her weapon. Her breathing was short and uneven, and every movement seemed to cost her a tremendous effort.
The leader of Night Raid ordered,"Tatsumi, take Mine with you and bring her back to base. Akame, Leone, Susanoo… we're going to face Anárion."
At the sound of that name, an invisible tension ran through the group. Everyone knew the reputation of the Ashen Phoenix. Everyone knew what it meant.
The young man protested."I can fight too…"His voice trembled slightly—not with fear, but with frustration. He refused to abandon his comrades to an enemy that monstrous.
"Tatsumi! Do what I'm telling you!" Najenda snapped, the strain in her voice impossible to miss.
Her tone left no room for argument. Tatsumi swept the scene with his eyes.
He saw Akame—her stare cold, her body marked by wounds. Leone—smiling as always, yet her shoulders sagging under exhaustion. Susanoo—strangely silent, rigid, as if already anticipating the battle's outcome.
Then he saw Mine.
She avoided his gaze.
In her eyes he read neither sarcasm nor anger, but a deep weariness. In that instant, Tatsumi finally understood his mistake. If she remained on the battlefield, she would inevitably be targeted. And without her Teigu, she had no chance of surviving.
Activating his armor, Tatsumi carried Mine like a princess—something that made her deeply uncomfortable.
"H-Hey! Put me down, idiot!" Her voice lacked strength, and her cheeks flushed, caught between embarrassment and exhaustion.
Without answering, Tatsumi tightened his grip and took off.
The pair fled quickly, leaving their friends to face the imperial general. Their silhouettes vanished among the shattered stands of the coliseum.
From beginning to end, Anárion watched the scene with a faint smile—neither mocking nor irritated.
Simply… interested.
"Thank you for not intervening," Najenda said.
"Those two don't interest me in the slightest. I'm here for you."Anárion's voice was calm, measured, as if discussing something trivial. His flame-ringed eyes briefly followed the direction Tatsumi had taken.
Anárion thought, Besides… the boy still has a role to play in this story.
"Me?" the former imperial general asked, uncertainty in her tone. "You mean Night Raid."
"No. Your little band of assassins is nothing but a diversion to me. You, however, are the heroine—and one of the pillars of the Revolutionary Army. Imagine the chaos your disappearance would cause."
At those words, the air around Anárion seemed to vibrate. A crushing heat descended upon the arena.
As he spoke, the Ashen Phoenix conjured a dozen flaming spears and hurled them toward Night Raid's leader. The projectiles carved incandescent trails through the air, screaming like meteors about to strike.
Before they could reach her, one of the assassins swept them aside with his weapon. The flames exploded against the ground, blasting dust and heat around the group.
In a cold voice, Anárion said,"So… you betray me, Susanoo."
The blue-haired man frowned at the words. His fists clenched, and an inner struggle seemed to flicker in his eyes.
"Sorry… but I won't let you kill my friends… Father."
The assassins were stunned by the bond implied between the two men. For a brief moment, the battlefield seemed to freeze.
Leone spoke in disbelief."What are you talking about, Susanoo?"
"Are you going to tell them," Anárion asked with amused calm, sensing the terror the truth would unleash, "or would you prefer I do it?"
The human Teigu hesitated. He lowered his gaze, drew a deep breath, then looked up. Seeing confusion and doubt on his companions' faces, he chose to reveal the truth.
"A thousand years ago, the First Emperor sought a way to make the Empire last forever. A mysterious individual appeared before him and offered him a new weapon to achieve that ambition. He was later known as the creator of the Teigu—the greatest smith the Empire ever knew. He took part in the creation of every Teigu, including me… but he vanished shortly after my birth, during the making of the forty-eighth Teigu. I can assure you: the man standing before us is my creator."
Night Raid stood frozen, shocked by the revelation.
Najenda asked, disbelieving,"W-Wait… are you saying this man is over a thousand years old?"
"How is that possible?" Akame asked, her left eyebrow lifting, cracking her usually expressionless face.
"For an old man, he's unbelievably well preserved… at least that explains the white hair," Leone tried to joke, attempting to cut the tension.
In a voice that carried the weight of ancient ages, Anárion replied,"If a detail like that astonishes you so much, know this: I existed before your race took its first steps… and I will continue to exist long after your civilization has been reduced to dust."
A shiver ran through the assassins. But none of them stepped back.
"That changes nothing," Najenda forced herself to say. "If you want to crush the revolution, then we will eliminate you."
"It is pointless to oppose me. I know what you fight for, and I promise you the new Empire I forge will never be corrupted by decadent nobles. Join me, and together we will build a better world," the general declared, his voice filled with promise.
Offended, she answered,"Never. We will never join someone who treats his allies like pawns."
The imperial general shook his head, as if he truly regretted it.
"That is a shame. As an elder, allow me to teach you one last thing…"
Suddenly, Najenda felt an atrocious pain that forced her hand to her chest—far more intense than when Esdeath had severed her arm and destroyed an eye.
Looking down, she saw an arrow oozing a black liquid buried in her chest, and her left hand smeared with blood.
"…Never argue with someone who wants you dead."
POV: Nolondil, Moments Earlier
On the roof of the coliseum stood a tall man, motionless as a stone statue. The wind snapped the dark cape trailing down his back, yet he did not move. His gaze was fixed on the arena below, where the crowd's cries rose like a chaotic tide.
Clad in matte black armor engraved with ancient runes barely visible in daylight, he resembled the other Black Númenóreans. Yet a major difference stood out at once. Where his brethren wielded lance and heavy sword, he carried a massive bow just under two meters long, fashioned from ancient wood reinforced with dark metal. A quiver filled with black-tipped arrows rested on his back, while a one-handed sword was secured at his belt.
This man was named Nolondil.
He was one of the oldest servants still active under the Dark Lord— a veteran of wars so ancient that men had forgotten even their names.
The God-King Sauron had ordered Nolondil to wait for his signal and bring down the silver-haired woman if she refused to serve his master. The order had been clear, precise, leaving no room for interpretation. Nolondil had neither argued nor protested.
And yet, inwardly, a persistent thought haunted him.
Personally, Nolondil did not understand his target's reasoning. He had watched Night Raid for weeks—sometimes months. He had seen their attacks, their choices, their sacrifices. She and her companions fought to eradicate the Empire's corruption, to protect the weak, to overthrow decadent nobles who fed on the people's blood.
In many ways, their ideals resonated with those of his master.
Sauron was many things—manipulator, conqueror, ruthless strategist—but he was certainly not corrupt. Greed did not interest him. Gold was merely a tool, a lever, a weapon among others to break the will of his enemies and weaken structures he judged rotten to the core.
Nolondil had served under him for millennia. He knew what kind of king his master was: an exceptional ruler to his own… a monster to his enemies. Under his reign, lands prospered, order was maintained, and weakness was never tolerated.
In the Black Númenórean's mind, it would therefore have been logical for Night Raid to submit to the Dark Lord—not out of fear, but out of pragmatism. They could have become instruments of justice in service of a new empire, cleansed of its parasites.
But humans were like that.
Too attached to their ideals. Too blind to recognize an outstretched hand when it came from the shadows.
From his elevated position, Nolondil saw the scene unfold clearly. He watched his king—Anárion—offer her one last chance to join him. He saw Najenda refuse.
Then he saw the signal.
A simple tilt of the head. Slow. Minimal. But unmistakable.
Seeing his king shake his head in refusal, Nolondil nocked an arrow and fired at the young woman.
The motion was perfect—fluid, exact. The bow thrummed with contained power, and the arrow flew like a streak of shadow, invisible to anyone who was not an elite warrior.
But fate—or perhaps cruel irony—intervened.
A sudden gust of wind deflected the projectile slightly, missing the vital organ by only a few centimeters. Nolondil felt it immediately. He knew, even before the arrow struck, that it had not reached the heart.
Below, the blue-haired man charged Sauron at once to prevent him from attacking the other assassins, while his two comrades moved to block any further ambush. Their reaction was fast, efficient—almost admirable.
Nolondil watched without any outward emotion.
Realizing his arrow had missed the heart and drifted slightly to the right, the Black Númenórean frowned. For a master archer, missing a motionless target was deeply frustrating—an error he almost never made.
But he felt no panic, no regret.
Fortunately, his arrows were steeped in Morgul poison—an ancient substance forged in darkness older than the realms of men. Once introduced into the blood, it spread slowly—cold and relentless—devouring the victim's vitality.
Night Raid's leader would inevitably die.
It would only take a few minutes longer.
His mission complete, Nolondil let out a long, sharp whistle—a coded signal only his kind could hear. At his call, two giant bats, each over a meter tall, surged from the coliseum's shadows. Their membranous wings beat the air violently as they dove toward him.
Each seized one of his shoulders and carried him out of the arena with effortless strength.
As he vanished into the heights, Nolondil cast one last glance toward the burning arena.
His presence no longer required, the Black Númenórean rejoined his brothers.