Inside the training grounds—
Puff—Puff—Puff!
With a burst of compressed air, Lock shot across the field like a flash of light. His blades gleamed, slicing through the air with precision. The reinforced wooden posts ahead—each wrapped in thick sheets of iron—split cleanly in half before crashing to the ground.
Thud!
Landing steadily before Eld and the others, Lock calmly handed them the twin blades.
"This… how is this possible?!"
Not only Eld but also Petra, Gunther, and Oluo stared in disbelief.
What Lock had just cut through wasn't ordinary wood—it was an iron-bound post, the metal plating nearly a centimeter thick. Any standard black iron blade would have bent, dulled, or shattered instantly. Yet these swords remained pristine. Only faint surface scratches marked their edges, so shallow they were barely visible.
"A damn fine pair of blades…" they muttered in unison, eyes wide.
Eld instinctively reached out, unable to resist testing the weight of the weapon. As elite members of the Survey Corps, they all knew just how vital a good blade could be—sometimes the difference between survival and death.
Seeing Eld's eager hands, the others immediately scowled.
But Eld laughed, pretending to brush it off. "Don't glare at me. Lock must have more by now. I'm just helping him lighten the load a bit."
"Shameless!"
"Completely shameless!"
"Too shameless!"
Oluo, Petra, and Gunther barked in perfect unison. Then, almost at the same time, they turned their hopeful gazes toward Lock.
Lock only shrugged. "We've forged six so far. Four were reserved for me—by the captain's orders, mind you. The remaining two are in Eld's hands."
"Four?!" Oluo snapped. "You're hoarding more than half for yourself!"
Even the usually calm Gunther frowned. "You could at least spare one or two."
"I agree," Petra said quietly, crossing her arms.
Lock smirked inwardly but sighed aloud. "It can't be helped. My name's already engraved on those four blades. But… if you don't mind that, you're welcome to them."
"Shameless!"
"Still shameless!"
"Absolutely shameless!"
Their protests echoed across the training ground.
Moments later, the group followed Lock back into the forge. The clang of hammers filled the air as flames roared inside the furnace.
They squinted against the smoke, watching the blacksmiths—bare-chested and drenched in sweat—work tirelessly under the heat. Petra's cheeks flushed; whether from the haze or embarrassment, no one could tell.
"You all don't plan on just standing around gawking, do you?" Lock teased.
Taking a freshly polished blade from Uncle Harry, he examined the small inscription etched into the steel near the hilt—"Lo," carved with delicate precision. The weapon balanced perfectly in his grip. These weren't just tools. They were extensions of himself.
Gunther watched, envious. "I've decided. Next time, I'm engraving my name on mine too."
Oluo smirked. "What'll it say? 'Get Lost'?"
Eld and Petra burst out laughing.
"It's Gunther," he shouted, his face darkening.
"…You're insufferable."
"Thanks for the compliment," Oluo replied, grinning smugly before turning toward the forge's glow.
Their banter gradually died down, replaced by the rhythmic ring of hammer on steel and the soft hiss of cooling metal.
Lock watched the others chatting with the blacksmiths about engravings and designs. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Looks like you'll have to wait for the next batch to get your knife, old man."
"Why's that?" Oluo asked, puzzled.
Following Lock's gaze, he realized the truth—and cursed under his breath. "You sly bastard…"
He quickly joined the others, arguing about which symbols to carve into their future weapons.
Seeing their excitement, Lock knew he wouldn't get another word in. Gathering his four blades, he left them to their noisy debate.
Back at the training ground, he replaced the worn-out swords on his ODM gear with the new ones.
Every Survey Corps member had their own registered set of equipment—not just for combat efficiency, but for identification. In most Titan encounters, no body remained after death. Only their gear would be recovered, serving as the final proof of who had fallen.
After ten minutes of careful adjustments, Lock tightened the last clasp, refilled the gas cylinders, and set the gear on the table. He leaned back, exhaling deeply.
His thoughts began to wander. What excuse can I use to stay in Shiganshina District a little longer?
By now, Erwin Smith—officially in command—would be making his first strategic moves. The government's refusal to resupply the forward base had been nothing more than a warning shot, testing his resolve. But Lock knew Erwin well enough. The man wouldn't yield to political pressure. A new expedition order was only a matter of time.
And when it came… so would the fall of Shiganshina.
For all the seeming peace, unease simmered beneath Lock's calm exterior.
That quiet was shattered without warning.
"Lock! We came to see you!"
Eren's voice echoed across the grounds, loud and bright.
Lock pinched the bridge of his nose. Does this kid think this is a playground?
Sure enough, Eren, Armin, and Mikasa came running, waving like children who'd just escaped class.
Normally, cadets weren't allowed anywhere near the Survey Corps' base. But since Lock had become their unofficial mentor, no one bothered to stop them anymore.
He rose to meet them, half-smiling in amusement—
Until his gaze flicked toward the Wall.
And froze.
A colossal, steaming face towered above the ramparts. The air shimmered from the heat radiating off its skin.
Lock's heart seized.
"...Why is it appearing now?!"
---
A/N:
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