Fifteen kilometers east of the Shiganshina District—
Once a quiet and desolate stretch of wasteland, the area had transformed into a hive of determined activity.
Refugees worked tirelessly across the fields, pulling weeds, turning soil, and planting crops beneath the pale sunlight. No one shirked their duty, no one complained. On every face lingered a fragile but genuine smile—the kind born not from comfort, but from purpose.
After the catastrophe, for many who had lost everything, simply having work and a path toward self-sufficiency was already a blessing.
At the center of it all, on a plot of freshly reclaimed land, Lock, Petra Rall, Ymir, and Armin Arlert worked together planting rows of potatoes.
Strictly speaking, it was Lock doing most of the work—his movements confident, efficient, and practiced—while the others followed his rhythm.
When the project began, Lock had no knowledge of agriculture whatsoever. But after days of observation and experimentation, his natural aptitude for learning allowed him to grasp the techniques quickly. Within just three days, his planting skill surpassed that of even the most seasoned farmers among the refugees.
Petra and Armin often stopped to watch him in disbelief, marveling at the ease with which he mastered something entirely foreign. Even Ymir, who usually wore a look of indifference, found herself watching with faint surprise.
Lock, however, remained focused—not on praise, but on results. Every seed buried in the soil represented a small step toward the island's survival.
As the final stretch of the field was planted, a faint chime echoed in Lock's mind—an echo of progress known only to him.
A clarity washed through him, unlocking new understanding. Movements that once felt forced now came naturally, as if the knowledge had always been there.
When the last row was finished, Lock straightened up and exhaled, brushing dirt from his gloves. "That's the last of it."
Petra jogged over, smiling as she handed him a flask of water. "Good work. But Lock, you don't have to do everything yourself. We're here to help you."
Lock took a sip and gave a small nod. "It's fine. The sooner this field's done, the sooner we can move on to the next."
Armin, wiping sweat from his brow, chimed in cheerfully, "You've done so much already, Lock. Honestly, if it weren't for you, my parents might still be wandering the streets. Thank you."
Lock gave a modest shrug. "It's everyone's effort that makes this work. One person can't rebuild an entire world."
Mikasa, who had been quietly tying off bundles nearby, stepped forward. "We'll help with the next one," she said simply, her voice steady but gentle.
Before Lock could reply, Ymir's voice cut through, sharp and dismissive. "Don't mistake me for a farmer. I'm only here because Petra asked."
Lock glanced at her, amused. "Then consider it exercise."
"Yeah, yeah," Ymir muttered, turning away.
The group's laughter carried lightly over the fields as they made their way toward a small wooden cabin at the edge of the camp. It was one of many temporary structures built to house the workers—rough, but standing firm against the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of freshly cooked food. Petra set down a pot of steaming stew as everyone gathered around a crude wooden table.
"The king launched a new initiative," Petra began, breaking the quiet hum of eating. "A plan to retake Wall Maria. Recruitment's already started."
Lock looked up sharply. "Recruitment? Volunteers?"
"Partly," Petra said with a frown. "They're calling it a volunteer army, but half the recruits are refugees. Many didn't have a choice—they were drafted to fill numbers. The Garrison, Military Police, and Survey Corps are all involved. Operations are set to begin next spring."
Armin's expression darkened. "A hundred thousand people… and most of them untrained."
Lock's voice was calm, but edged with disdain. "Using civilians to fight Titans. Our king truly sees the people as expendable pieces on a board."
The words hung heavy in the air. Everyone knew what he meant. Even trained soldiers fell easily to Titans—throwing civilians into such a fight was nothing short of slaughter.
A silence settled over the table, broken only by the distant sound of wind against the wooden walls.
Then, with perfect timing, the door swung open.
"Hey! Why didn't anyone tell me dinner was ready?!" Hange Zoe's voice cut through the gloom, full of mock outrage. "You all left me to deal with the equipment check and farming reports alone! I'm starving!"
Lock gestured toward the table, amused. "Sit down before you collapse."
Without hesitation, Hange dropped into the empty seat and began devouring Petra's cooking, muttering between bites, "You know, for someone who spends all day studying Titans, I sure appreciate simple food."
Petra smiled faintly. "Eat as much as you like, Captain."
Across from her, Ymir sat with her bowl untouched, staring out the window.
Noticing this, Hange leaned forward, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Ymir, you're not eating? What's wrong—potatoes not up to your taste?"
Ymir glared back. "Mind your own plate."
"That's what Petra calls you, right?" Hange teased, tilting her head.
"My sister's different," Ymir replied coldly, her voice softening slightly only when she glanced toward Petra.
"Oh?" Hange's grin widened mischievously. "Is it because her chest is bigger than mine?"
"Captain Hange!" Petra nearly choked, her cheeks turning scarlet.
Mikasa froze mid-bite. Armin stared down at his bowl, pretending to find the potatoes fascinating.
Even Lock let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You two never change."
Ymir's scowl softened into something halfway between annoyance and laughter. "You really are insufferable, Captain."
The tension dissolved in chuckles. Outside, the last light of day faded into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and grey.
Lock looked around the table—at Petra's gentle smile, Armin's thoughtful eyes, Mikasa's quiet focus, Ymir's reluctant grin, and Hange's boundless energy—and for a fleeting moment, the heaviness of the world beyond the walls felt distant.
For now, they were safe.
For now, there was warmth.
He leaned back, gazing out the small window toward the fields where new life had just been planted. Those rows of potatoes were more than food—they were symbols of defiance, of rebuilding, of hope.
A tiny spark against the endless dark.
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Author's Note:
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