"Bang!"
The dull thud echoed in the workshop as Lock's fist sank into the apprentice's stomach. The boy doubled over with a sharp cry before collapsing to the ground.
The other four barely hesitated before rushing in, circling Lock, and throwing wild punches.
Lock didn't back away. He absorbed the blows without flinching, his counterattacks deliberate and merciless—short hooks to the stomach, a jab to the nose, a swift knee to the thigh. Every strike landed with precision, and soon the cramped space filled with a chorus of groans and gasps.
The blacksmiths' apprentices who had gathered to watch froze. They exchanged uneasy glances, silently grateful they hadn't been the ones to provoke him.
When the last of the four attackers stumbled back, clutching his ribs, Lock stood in the middle of them, his expression cold.
"I still have work to do," he said flatly. "You've got three seconds to get more than ten meters away from me. If you don't, we'll start again."
The five scrambled to their feet, muttering hurried apologies as they bolted for the door. They moved faster than Lock had expected, and for a brief moment, he almost smirked. Almost.
He picked up his tools again and returned to the workbench. The rhythm of the whetstone against steel filled the workshop as he resumed sharpening blades.
By his count, he'd already finished over ninety. If his pace held, the inspection work would be done ahead of schedule.
Three more points in strength, coordination, and weapon mastery, he thought. If I keep this up, I should be able to lock in a spot at Shiganshina.
Lock wasn't just relying on his ability. Harry's recommendation for the reserve list, combined with the fact that Keith Shadis—Commander of the Survey Corps—had known his father, gave him a foundation few others could claim. He would have his chance.
The door opened, and Harry returned with the other blacksmiths. One look around told him enough.
"Good job," Harry said, cracking his massive knuckles. "Those punks only understand one thing—if you let them push you once, they'll keep pushing. You did right."
The other blacksmiths didn't intervene. Apprentices fought all the time; it was practically tradition. But five-on-one and still losing? That was harder to ignore.
Even so, as the details spread, the older men exchanged surprised glances. Thirteen years old, and Lock had dropped one of them in a single punch.
"That kid's got something," one muttered.
"No kidding. In just over two months, he's forged more skill than most manage in a year. He's a natural."
"Pity Harry got to him first," another said with a grin.
"Go ahead, try to take him," came the dry reply. "I'm sure Harry will be fine with it."
They laughed, the tension dissolving into the familiar clamor of hammers, files, and steel.
Lock welcomed the return to normalcy. He had no interest in wasting energy on petty grudges. The year 845 was only days away. The Fall of Shiganshina loomed over him like a shadow. He needed to be ready—to join the Cadet Corps, to learn to kill Titans, to put his steadily growing strength to real use.
Only then could he protect the people bound to him like family.
The scrape of steel against stone slowed. Lock polished the last blade and set it aside.
A familiar chime rang in his ears.
Ding. Achievement [Test Your Skills] completed. Strength +3, Coordination +3, Weapon Mastery +3.
A wave of warmth surged through his limbs, a quiet rush that left his muscles taut and his grip surer than ever. It faded after a few seconds, but the power lingered, humming under his skin.
Lock reached for one of the black-gold bamboo blades, the steel gleaming in the lamplight. It felt like an extension of his arm. He gave it a few quick cuts through the air, each swing clean, the wind hissing along the edge.
He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, confident smile.
"I'm ready."