Lock's life in the Shiganshina District gradually settled into a steady rhythm.
No more exhausting night marches, no more constant fear of Titan ambushes, no more hollow confusion after every kill—only the quiet satisfaction of purposeful work each day.
Eren, Armin, and Mikasa often visited his home.
The three children, endlessly curious about the world beyond the Walls, bombarded him with questions about the landscapes he'd seen.
They'd heard that the outside world teemed with life—vast mountains, deep forests, and trees that soared higher than the city walls themselves. Their imaginations ran wild at the thought of such beauty and danger.
Armin, ever timid, shuddered when Lock described the Titans that roamed those lands.
Eren's eyes burned brighter, filled with the desire to see it all for himself.
Mikasa stayed silent as always, her calm expression betraying little—but her quiet glances made it clear that, to her, nothing mattered more than the safety of those she cared for.
Outside of these visits, Lock spent most of his time at Uncle Harry's forge, or at the homes of Harry and Eren's families.
Aunt Martha and Aunt Carla treated him like family, their warmth offering a brief refuge from the harsh reality of the world.
Lock, ever considerate, would bring food and supplies as small tokens of gratitude.
For a while, he felt something he hadn't known in a long time—a sense of home.
But reality remained unforgiving.
He knew there was only one path forward: to keep moving.
The Sound of Steel
Ding… ding… ding…
At dawn, the rhythmic clash of hammer on metal echoed from the Survey Corps' forge.
Half-asleep guards stirred from their posts, exchanging weary looks.
"It's started again," one yawned. "Been a month already, hasn't it?"
"Yeah. I actually admire the kid. Gets up before sunrise every single day."
"I couldn't last two days doing that."
"In weather like this? I'd rather stay in bed till noon."
"Same here. Once my shift's done, I'm passing out."
"Together?"
"Roll over."
"…Right."
Meanwhile, inside the forge, Lock worked shirtless, muscles taut as he hammered a glowing red piece of iron with unwavering focus.
The block had been thirty centimeters thick when he began; now, reduced to the size of a clenched fist, its impurities had been nearly beaten out.
Even with his immense physical strength, the process drained him. An hour and a half later, sweat streamed down his face.
Uncle Harry entered with a group of blacksmiths right on schedule.
Seeing the young man's progress, one of them whistled. "Still as diligent as ever, that one."
"Yeah," another chuckled. "If I'd had that kind of drive when I was young, I'd be a master by now—instead of arguing with Harry every day."
Harry snorted. "Big Beard, you want another rematch?"
"Sure thing. We're tied fifty-fifty, remember?"
"Keep dreaming."
Laughter filled the workshop, but Lock barely noticed.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and said calmly, "Everyone, let's begin."
The banter died down immediately.
"Since Lock said it, no more arguing today," one joked.
Harry folded his arms. "That should've been my line."
Their childish rivalry drew another round of laughter before everyone turned back to work.
The forge settled into its steady rhythm again—the hiss of bellows, the crack of steel, the glow of embers reflecting in determined eyes.
Harry and the others studied the iron Lock had refined and exchanged nods of approval.
They remembered that just a month ago, his forging skill had been raw and unsteady.
Now, his control and precision were near-perfect.
The next steps belonged to the masters.
Each of the veteran blacksmiths had decades of experience, all handpicked by Charlie, one of the Corps' senior smiths. Their craftsmanship surpassed Lock's by far.
Watching them work—every motion deliberate, every strike perfectly timed—Lock could only sigh softly.
"In comparison, I'm still far behind," he murmured.
Still, he didn't stop watching.
He studied every gesture, memorized every adjustment, every flick of the wrist and change in heat color.
Whenever he could, he joined in, assisting with the quenching, shaping, and tempering, determined that when the ultrahard steel alloy was finally merged, nothing would go wrong.
A full month of repetition and refinement had brought them here.
Today, everything felt aligned—the timing, the rhythm, the instinct of craftsmen who knew success was close.
Finally, after hours of precise work, the reforged blade took shape.
Its spine was jet-black; its edge gleamed silver-white under the forge light, radiating a sharp, cold brilliance even before sharpening.
It was the unmistakable feel of success.
Only one step remained.
The bearded blacksmith—renowned as the best grinder in the district—stepped forward.
With delicate precision, he began the final sharpening, the rasp of stone on metal echoing through the quiet forge.
No one spoke; every eye stayed on the blade.
Forty minutes later, as the last stroke was drawn and the edge gleamed like a mirror, a soft chime rang in Lock's ears.
System Notification:
Mission Progress Updated.
---
A/N: Advanced chapters available on Patreon.
Support: patreon.com/Narrator_San