A higher rank could crush a soldier without a word. Captain Levi and Vice Commander Erwin were more than just a step above—when they sat down with the squad, it was inevitable that the food would be theirs to share.
Both men had known of Petra's cooking for some time, but outside the Walls, a hot meal like this was a rare gift. Erwin praised her openly, and even Levi, usually cold and distant, allowed a few words of approval.
Before long, however, the conversation turned toward Lock.
"You've already proven you can bring down an abnormal on your own," Erwin said, studying him with quiet satisfaction. "I was right about you."
Levi, arms folded, remained as unreadable as ever. "Don't get ahead of yourself. You've got a long way to go."
"I know," Lock admitted. "There are still plenty of flaws in my fighting."
To the others, it sounded like humility. To Lock, it was a simple truth.
Erwin's eyes held a rare spark. In his mind, he could already see what Lock might become—another soldier on Levi's level. One man, worth an entire brigade. If Lock reached his potential, the Survey Corps would gain not only strength, but flexibility in missions where survival often hinged on a single blade.
Of course, that power only mattered if command and deployment kept pace. Humanity knew far too little of the world beyond the Walls. Every operation risked the unknown. Plans were only as good as a commander's ability to adapt. And in that, Erwin carried one concern: Commander Keith's judgment.
Keith was earnest and loyal, but prone to hesitation when the situation shifted suddenly. Erwin could support him, steady him—but in truth, he was already preparing for the day when the Corps would need sharper leadership.
Standing, he ended the discussion with his usual brevity. "I'm returning to headquarters. Encourage one another—and keep sharp."
"Yes, Vice Commander!" The squad saluted as one.
Erwin gave Lock a final, measured glance before leaving with Levi. Their shadows disappeared into the night, leaving silence behind.
Lock exhaled. He and Oluo traded a glance, then shrugged, settling back into the rhythm of camp—feeding the horses, snatching what rest they could.
An hour later, torches were lit again, and the column moved on. The stillness of the night pressed in on them, heavy and suffocating.
"If you're scared, stick close to me, rookie," Oluo muttered with a crooked grin.
Lock raised an eyebrow at the man's dangling right leg, trembling despite his words. "Old bird, aren't you tired of keeping your foot like that?"
Oluo coughed, embarrassed. He cast a glance at Petra, Gunther, and Elder—serious, vigilant, paying no attention to him. Relieved, he lowered his voice. "Seriously though… you're not afraid?"
"I am," Lock answered evenly.
Oluo blinked. "Then why—"
"What's the point?" Lock cut in. "Fear doesn't change the fact that we still have to march. Besides…" He lifted his torch, flame hissing in the night air. "We've been traveling for hours without a single titan sighting. Patrols haven't reported any either. Doesn't that suggest something?"
"…That they're resting?" Oluo said slowly.
"Like humans," Lock nodded.
Oluo frowned, unusually serious. "Maybe. But titans aren't like us. I've seen too much to think that." His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, jaw tight with old hatred.
Lock let it drop. Instead, he asked, almost casually, "What about titans taller than the Walls? If they exist, then…" He left the thought unfinished.
Oluo's eyes darkened. "The largest we've recorded is fifteen meters. But if there really are titans fifty meters tall…" His fingers tightened on his gear's hilt. "Then we cut them down all the same."
Lock gave a small nod. "Yeah. That's all we can do."
The image of Bertholdt Hoover rose unbidden in his mind—the looming figure of the Colossal Titan. Lock felt no hatred for Marley's warriors. They were soldiers, too, fighting for their own side. But if they stood against him, then, like Oluo said, his only answer was steel. Humanity's power had to remain in human hands.
His thoughts were broken by a sudden shout from the rear of the convoy—a cry of alarm, sharp enough to cut through the night.
The squad froze, heads snapping toward the sound.
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