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

The night was thick with silence, save for the soft whispers of the wind through the desolate streets of the Capital. The moon, veiled by drifting clouds, cast long, distorted shadows upon the cobblestone paths. The scent of blood hung in the air, faint yet unmistakable, a silent prelude to the horrors lurking within the darkness. A single scream rang out—brief, choked, and abruptly silenced. Then, laughter followed.

Zank the Beheader stood over his latest victim, his grin stretching wide as he twirled the bloodstained blade of his executioner's sword. His crimson-streaked robes fluttered slightly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the cold stone beneath him. The dying man's lifeless eyes reflected the ghostly glow of Spectator, the Imperial Arm clutched tightly in the assassin's grasp. Zank tilted his head, listening intently, his expression shifting between amusement and fascination as he absorbed the last remnants of his victim's life.

"Ahh... such anguish," Zank murmured, running a gloved hand along the length of his weapon. "Your final thoughts... how sweetly they echo. Fear, regret, sorrow. It never gets old."

He took a step back, admiring his work. The corpse sprawled across the pavement, limbs twisted unnaturally, blood seeping into the cracks like ink upon parchment. His lips curled into a smirk as he crouched beside the body, trailing a finger through the pooling crimson. It was still warm. Fresh. The perfect kind of kill.

Then, Spectator spoke—or rather, the voices within did. Echoes of the past, of those long departed yet trapped within the relic's influence. They whispered in a cacophony of broken sentences, memories clashing and intertwining, their dissonant wails slithering into his mind like tendrils of smoke.

"More..." The voices urged. "Find another... Take more..."

Zank chuckled, tapping the side of his temple as if to soothe an imaginary itch. "Patience, patience... all in good time."

The voices had been his only true companions for so long, their presence a constant lullaby of madness that he had long since embraced. The first time he had heard them, he had resisted, clawed against their pull. But resistance had been futile. Now, they were a part of him, as familiar as the blade in his hands, as necessary as the breath in his lungs.

He stood, rolling his shoulders before setting his sights on the next prize. His gaze swept across the darkened alleyways and towering buildings of the district. Somewhere, more souls awaited his touch. The Capital was a city rife with corruption, and Zank saw himself as its harbinger of judgment, delivering death indiscriminately. It was a duty he carried with pride, and tonight, he would carve his message into the streets once more.

He took a step forward, vanishing into the darkness, his eerie laughter lingering in the wind like a ghostly promise.

The air inside Night Raid's hideout was tense as the members gathered around Najenda. A single candle flickered on the wooden table, casting long shadows against the walls. The scent of old parchment and ink filled the room as Lubbock laid out the latest intelligence reports, his fingers carefully smoothing out the creases on the worn parchment. A cold breeze whistled through the cracks in the wooden walls, making the candle's flame dance uneasily. 

"We've received disturbing news," Najenda began, her voice steady but grave. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table as she surveyed her team. "A serial killer is on the loose in the Capital. The bodies are piling up, and the method of execution is always the same—decapitation. The Revolutionary Army believes this isn't just another deranged murderer. Our scouts suspect he possesses an Imperial Arm."

The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. 

Akame's crimson eyes narrowed. "Zank the Beheader." Her voice was quiet, but the weight of recognition in her tone made everyone stiffen.

Tatsumi turned toward her, his brow furrowing. "You know him?"

She gave a curt nod. "He was once the executioner for the Empire. His skill with a blade was unmatched, but over time, the weight of his actions drove him mad. He started hearing the voices of those he killed."

Leone crossed her arms and scowled. "Just great. Another lunatic the Empire let loose."

Najenda took a long drag from her cigar before exhaling a plume of smoke. "And now, he's turned those skills against anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. If he truly possesses an Imperial Arm, then he's even more dangerous than before. He's not just a killer—he's a predator who enjoys the hunt."

Tatsumi clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "What does his weapon do?"

"Spectator," Akame answered without hesitation. "It grants him the ability to read minds. He can anticipate attacks before they happen, making him almost impossible to hit."

Silence followed. Tatsumi felt a cold chill creep down his spine. A mind-reader? That meant every feint, every strike he attempted would be countered before he could even commit to it. It wasn't just a battle of skill—it was a battle against someone who could predict his every move. His grip on his sword tightened instinctively.

Lubbock let out a low whistle. "That's gotta be a nightmare in a fight. How do you beat someone who knows what you're thinking?"

Najenda exhaled slowly and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "That's why I'm sending you and Akame to eliminate him. This mission won't be easy. You'll need to rely on more than just brute force. Outsmart him. Use what you have."

Tatsumi swallowed hard but nodded. "Understood."

Akame turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Don't let your emotions get in the way. Zank is ruthless. If you hesitate, he won't."

Tatsumi met her gaze and squared his shoulders. "I won't."

Najenda tapped her fingers against the table. "One last thing—you won't be able to rely on direct combat alone. Find his weakness and exploit it."

Leone smirked. "Or just get to him before he can read your mind."

Najenda gave them both a firm nod. "Then move out. End this before more innocent lives are lost."

With that, Tatsumi and Akame departed into the night, the weight of their task pressing down on them like a shadow stretching beneath the moonlight. The wind howled through the trees as the Capital loomed in the distance, an ever-present reminder of the darkness they were about to face.

The dimly lit alleys of the Capital stretched before Akame and Tatsumi, their steps silent as they maneuvered through the labyrinth of shadowed pathways. The city slept under a heavy shroud of darkness, but the two assassins remained alert, their senses honed for the predator that lurked in the night. Every step they took was measured, their bodies tense with anticipation. The air was thick with the stench of damp stone and distant refuse, but neither paid it any mind. Their focus was singular—Zank the Beheader.

Zank had struck again, his latest victim left in the open as a grim message to the terrified citizens. His pattern was clear—he relished the hunt, drawing out his prey before delivering his final blow. It was an eerie game to him, one he played with sadistic glee. But tonight, the hunter would become the hunted.

Akame halted abruptly, her crimson eyes narrowing as she scanned the street ahead. A lone figure stood slumped against the wall—a fake target, carefully placed to lure Zank into the open. The silence in the air was unnatural, thick with an unshakable sense of foreboding. Tatsumi exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves. He knew he had to be ready, had to react faster than he ever had before. They had to make this quick before more innocent people were caught in the crossfire.

Then, a cold chuckle echoed from above, a sound that sent a chill racing down Tatsumi's spine.

"How thoughtful of you to make my job easier," a voice sneered, dripping with amusement and malice.

Zank leaped down from the rooftop with inhuman grace, landing effortlessly before them. His jagged smile stretched wide, the moonlight casting eerie shadows over his face. He brandished his weapon—Spectator, an Imperial Arm with a sinister gleam. The blade seemed to hum, a whispering presence that only he could hear. His gaze flicked between Akame and Tatsumi, his head tilting slightly in curiosity, as though he were already reading their thoughts.

"Ahh, Night Raid," he mused, his voice teasing yet deadly. "And a fresh recruit too. How delightful. I do love reading the final thoughts of my prey."

Tatsumi tensed as Zank raised his blade, the air between them thick with unseen pressure. The weight of the killer's presence was suffocating. Then, without warning, Zank lunged.

Tatsumi barely had time to react before his body moved on instinct, narrowly dodging the first slash. He felt the wind of the blade whistle past his cheek, far too close for comfort. He swung his sword in retaliation, his grip firm, but Zank sidestepped with fluid ease, a smirk never leaving his lips.

"Predictable," the assassin hummed, his tone filled with amusement. "You're thinking too much. I can see your attacks before you even commit to them."

Tatsumi gritted his teeth. Was that really true? Could Zank read his every move before he even made it? The realization sent a jolt of panic through him, but he forced himself to stay focused. This was a battle of life and death—there was no time for doubt.

Akame dashed in from the side, her blade a streak of silver in the darkness, seeking Zank's flesh. But once again, he twisted away, evading with unnatural precision. His grin widened.

"And you," he laughed, locking eyes with her, "are harder to read. Such a disciplined mind. But even discipline has limits."

Akame's expression remained unreadable, but Tatsumi knew she had to be thinking the same thing he was. This wasn't a normal fight. It wasn't just about speed or skill. Zank's Imperial Arm gave him an unnatural edge, and they had to find a way to overcome it.

Tatsumi's grip on his sword tightened as he took a step forward, his heart pounding. The fight had only begun, but already, the weight of Zank's power was pressing down on them. Mind-reading—it wasn't just an advantage, it was a terrifying weapon in its own right. If they didn't adapt quickly, this battle would be over before they could land a single blow. 

The dimly lit alleys of the Capital stretched endlessly, winding paths carved between towering, foreboding structures. Shadows danced under the flickering lanterns, the distant hum of city life barely reaching the empty streets. It was here, in the dead of night, that a lone figure staggered along the cobblestone road, swaying from side to side with each uneven step.

A deep, boisterous voice shattered the eerie silence. "I'm a black Scottish cyclops!" the man bellowed, his thick accent slurring the words together. He lurched forward, barely catching himself as he took another swig from a glass bottle, its contents unknown but undoubtedly potent. His armor clanked with each uncoordinated movement, his single eye glazed with intoxication.

Demoman wandered aimlessly, heedless of the dangers lurking in the Capital's darkest corners. To him, the night was nothing more than a blur of distorted lights and shifting ground beneath his boots. Every so often, he would pause, blinking at his surroundings in confusion before carrying on, as if the streets themselves had rearranged in an attempt to confuse him.

Unbeknownst to him, fate had guided his drunken steps toward a far deadlier encounter. Just ahead, Tatsumi and Akame battled against the deranged executioner, Zank the Beheader. Shadows danced across the dimly lit alleyway, their movements swift and deadly. Zank grinned maniacally, his blade weaving through the air with lethal precision, his every motion guided by his sinister Teigu, Spectator. His gaze flickered between his two opponents, his mind already reaching into their thoughts, seeking the slightest hesitation, the smallest doubt he could exploit.

Then, amidst the deadly duel, a drunken voice slurred from the darkness.

"Wha's all this racket, then? Aye, ye call this a fight? I've seen bar brawls nastier than this!"

A figure staggered into view, his steps uneven, his breath thick with the stench of alcohol. Clad in a tattered coat with a massive grenade launcher strapped to his back, the newcomer swayed dangerously, barely keeping himself upright. His one eye gleamed under the moonlight, an eerie contrast to the half-empty bottle he clutched in his other hand. He took another long swig, wobbling unsteadily before letting out a hiccup.

"Demoman?!" Tatsumi's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the mercenary from his time with the REDs.

Akame, on instinct, tensed, recognizing the name from what Tatsumi had told her about him, but still unsure whether the drunken man was an ally or another foe. But before anyone could act, Zank's twisted grin widened at the sight of the seemingly helpless newcomer.

"Hah. This city is full of fools," Zank sneered. "Your thoughts belong to me now."

Without hesitation, he activated Spectator.

The air grew heavy as Zank's Teigu tapped into the depths of Demoman's mind. His smirk faltered almost immediately.

Instead of coherent thoughts or emotions, Zank was hit with a tidal wave of incomprehensible chaos.

Screaming spirits clawed at the edges of his consciousness—restless, vengeful wraiths born of ancient pacts. A swirling vortex of eldritch nightmares surged forward, echoes of an old, cursed lineage stretching back generations. The visions of a demonic entity, the legendary Eyelander, flashed before Zank's eyes—an insatiable blade that drained the very life from its victims, whispering to its wielder in haunting, bloodthirsty murmurs. The unrelenting spirits of those slain by the blade loomed over Zank's psyche, their ghastly wails reverberating in his skull.

His vision blurred as images overlapped—battles fought across time, heads taken in drunken, uncontrollable rampages, and the relentless, gnawing hunger of the Eyelander, always demanding more. He felt the weight of the curse settling onto him, pressing into his bones, threatening to tear away his very essence. Through it all, Demoman's thoughts were no better—a nonsensical swirl of bagpipes, explosions, an unholy love for destruction, and the distinct sensation of being inebriated for an eternity.

Zank gasped, his breath hitching as his body convulsed. He saw the countless foes Demoman had slain, their spirits bound to his very soul, whispering and wailing in torment. The presence of the curse was suffocating, an endless abyss of drunken madness interwoven with supernatural horrors beyond mortal comprehension. He tried to turn away, to shut out the voices, but they grew louder, their screeching laughter ringing in his ears.

"What… what the hell is this?!" Zank clutched his head as an overwhelming migraine slammed into his skull. His fingers trembled as Spectator's glow flickered erratically, unable to process the sheer anarchy it had absorbed. Sweat dripped down his brow as he stumbled back, his confidence shattered, his mind teetering on the edge of insanity.

Demoman, still blissfully unaware of the chaos he had just inflicted, took another swig from his bottle and smirked. "Ach, ye poor bastard. Ye looked into somethin' ye weren't ready for, didn't ye?" He let out a bellowing laugh before raising his bottle in mock salute.

Zank stumbled backward, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling as if he had peered into the depths of hell itself. Spectator flickered and deactivated, unable to withstand the sheer lunacy it had absorbed. For the first time, the deranged executioner felt fear—real, primal terror. He had gazed into something worse than death itself, a mind so fractured yet so powerful in its own chaotic way that it left him vulnerable.

The air hung heavy with tension as Demoman staggered forward, his single eye gleaming with an eerie fire. Tatsumi and Akame watched, momentarily stunned, as the drunken mercenary unslung a massive, curved blade from his back. The Eyelander. A cursed sword of eldritch origins, its hungry whispers filling the night air with a spectral resonance. The very air around it crackled with an unnatural energy, sending a chill through even the most hardened warriors present. It was as if the blade itself recognized the impending feast.

"Ye had yer chance, lad. But ye went an' peeked where ye shouldn't have." Demoman slurred, pointing a shaky yet confident finger at Zank. A dark grin stretched across his face as he swayed slightly, but there was nothing uncertain about the way he held his blade.

The executioner had barely recovered from the mind-warping nightmare he'd endured moments ago. Spectator trembled in his grip, its once stable glow flickering as if struggling to regain control. The torment of Demoman's madness had already rooted itself deep in his psyche, and yet, through sheer stubbornness, Zank forced himself to stand. 

"I... I see it now," Zank muttered, his face slick with sweat, pupils dilated in sheer terror. "Your mind... a storm... a cacophony of spirits... too many... too loud...!" He clutched his head, shaking, before his lips curled into a desperate grin. "But I am Zank the Beheader! I will not fall to madness!"

"Aye, ye will!" Demoman bellowed, gripping the Eyelander with both hands. "Now let's see if yer skull's worth a damn!"

Zank lunged forward, his movements erratic, his confidence masking the lingering fear clawing at his soul. He swung his blade in a deadly arc, but Demoman merely sidestepped, swaying with drunken unpredictability. Before Zank could recover, Demoman's own sword came crashing down, forcing Zank onto the defensive. 

The Eyelander was no ordinary weapon. It did not simply cut—it devoured. Each swing left the air tinged with a ghostly shimmer, as if reality itself recoiled from its presence. Zank barely managed to parry, his body moving purely on instinct. His muscles strained under the force of each impact, and despite his training, he could feel himself being pushed back.

Akame narrowed her eyes. "That sword... it's unnatural."

"So is Demoman," Tatsumi muttered, watching in disbelief as the Scotsman cackled mid-battle, his strikes wild yet precise. Every clash sent a jarring shock through Zank's arms, the force behind Demoman's blows almost inhuman. He had faced skilled swordsmen before, but none quite like this.

Then, in a reckless charge, Zank activated Spectator again, his desperate mind seeking a weakness.

Big mistake.

Once more, his consciousness was flooded with horror.

This time, it was worse.

He saw endless battlefields drenched in blood, headless corpses crumpling to the ground as Demoman rampaged across war-torn lands. The cursed blade had claimed so many, their spirits bound forever in an unholy procession behind him. He felt the weight of their suffering, their wailing voices screaming inside his skull. It was too much—too vast, too deep, too all-consuming. The voices, the endless screaming of the damned, reached a deafening crescendo. His mind twisted, writhing, breaking under the weight of an existence spent in endless, violent revelry.

"TOO MANY! TOO LOUD!" Zank shrieked, clawing at his face as though he could tear away the madness seeping into his soul. He staggered, his breath coming in ragged gasps as blood dripped from his nose. His body trembled, his very being unraveling under the weight of what he had seen.

"Aye, ye got that right!" Demoman roared. "And now, yer gonna join 'em!"

With a final, mighty swing, the Eyelander cleaved clean through Zank's neck.

The blade drank deep.

Silence fell, save for the faint, ghostly laughter of the spirits bound to Demoman's blade. The air seemed to vibrate with an unseen force as a faint, ghastly mist coiled around the weapon, as though savoring its latest addition.

Zank's body stood rigid for a moment, blood pouring from the gaping wound where his head once was. His head, severed, rolled across the ground, his expression frozen in eternal terror. But even in death, Spectator activated one last time. The eyes on the Teigu glowed weakly as it tried to glimpse its wielder's final moments.

It only saw darkness.

It only heard the screams.

The blade in Demoman's hand pulsed with satisfaction, the echoes of Zank's torment forever bound within it. Tatsumi swallowed hard, unable to look away. He had fought and killed, but never like this. Never with such finality, such eerie certainty. 

The battlefield was silent, save for the slow, rhythmic dripping of blood pooling beneath Zank's headless corpse. The faint echo of the decapitated assassin's final breath faded into the night air, replaced only by the heavy, uneven breathing of the man who had just slain him. The stillness was almost eerie, the remnants of the battle hanging in the air like a ghostly presence, as if the spirits of the fallen lingered, watching in silence.

Demoman stood tall, swaying slightly from intoxication, gripping the hilt of his monstrous blade—the Eyelander. The massive claymore gleamed in the dim light, its curved edge still slick with fresh crimson. Unlike traditional weapons, the Eyelander possessed an eerie, almost supernatural aura, as though it had a hunger of its own. It was an ancient weapon, a blade that had seen countless battles, its steel scarred yet undeterred, as though thirsting for more. The hilt was wrapped in weathered leather, showing the signs of years, perhaps even centuries, of wielders who had fought and fallen in its service. Runes, long faded but still faintly visible, were etched into the steel, whispering of its grim legacy. Every swing of the blade seemed to carry the weight of those who had perished before it, the steel humming with unseen energy as if feeding off the very essence of its victims.

With a triumphant, drunken laugh, Demo hoisted Zank's severed head high into the air. "HEADS TAKEN!" he bellowed, his thick Scottish accent making it almost incomprehensible. His single eye gleamed with unrestrained joy, his grin wide as if he had just won a grand tournament rather than ended a life. The blood that dripped from the severed neck did not seem to bother him in the slightest—if anything, he seemed invigorated by it. The Eyelander pulsed in his grip, as if echoing its master's excitement, its unholy appetite momentarily sated.

Tatsumi barely knew how to react. His mission had been to eliminate Zank alongside Akame, yet the entire fight had been stolen by this raving lunatic of a warrior. This wasn't a calculated assassination—it was a spectacle. A brutal, chaotic display of violence that had turned an execution into a macabre celebration. He turned to his companion, looking for guidance, but even Akame seemed at a loss for words.

She stood still, crimson eyes fixed on the blood-soaked Eyelander, analyzing its every detail. In some ways, it reminded her of Murasame—both were deadly blades with a fearsome reputation, weapons that decided the fate of those who crossed them. Yet, where Murasame carried a quiet, ominous lethality—its curse delivering instant death with the slightest cut—the Eyelander was loud, brutal, and demanding. It did not kill with subtlety; it reaped. Murasame ended lives with a whisper, but the Eyelander roared with each swing, claiming heads in a gruesome display. It was a blade that demanded tribute, one that did not simply kill, but collected.

Her grip tightened slightly on her own sword, not out of fear, but intrigue. If there truly was power imbued within Demoman's weapon, it was unlike any Teigu she had ever encountered. The way it severed Zank's head so effortlessly, as if demanding its own tribute in blood… it fascinated her. Did the sword grow stronger with every head it took? Did it carry the memories, the essence of those it killed? The idea was unsettling, yet intriguing. Could such a thing rival the cursed blade she carried? Could the Eyelander truly be the type of weapon that defied even Teigu?

Her gaze shifted to the fallen Zank. His teigu, Spectator, lay discarded beside him, its ornate frame gleaming even in the dim moonlight. A teigu that could read minds—such an ability could be invaluable in the hands of the right assassin. Without hesitation, she bent down and retrieved it, tucking it into her belongings. Perhaps Najenda could determine its true potential, or perhaps Akame herself would find a use for it in the future. The weapon felt light in her hands, deceptively simple, yet she could sense its dormant power beneath the polished metal. She would test it later, but for now, it belonged to her.

Tatsumi finally found his voice. "Uh… well. That happened."

Akame blinked, glancing at him before nodding slightly. "Yes. We should report back to Najenda."

As if deciding that his work here was done, Demoman gave a contented sigh and let Zank's head drop to the ground with a dull thud. The lifeless eyes of the severed head stared up at the sky, mouth slightly agape, as though frozen in horror at the sheer absurdity of its demise. Demo sheathed the Eyelander across his back with a practiced motion, humming an old tune as he stumbled off into the darkness, already forgetting the fight that had just taken place. To him, this was just another battle, another moment in a long series of blood-soaked victories. The fact that Zank had possessed a reputation, a deadly skillset, meant nothing to him. He was simply another head for the Eyelander.

Tatsumi exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I think I finally understand why the others kept warning me about those guys…"

Akame didn't respond immediately. Instead, she cast one last glance at the bloodied Eyelander before following Tatsumi into the night. She had faced many warriors, many weapons—but something told her she had yet to see the true extent of what the REDs were capable of. If one drunken mercenary could single-handedly eliminate a foe as dangerous as Zank, what were the rest of them hiding?

As they vanished into the shadows, the scent of blood still lingered in the air, and in the darkness, the Eyelander gleamed, its thirst for battle far from quenched.