The training ground buzzed with noise, dust, and the kind of nervous excitement that came only with new beginnings. Rows of wide-eyed recruits stood at attention, some trembling, others puffing out their chests as if sheer bravado could mask the fear gnawing at their stomachs.
The air was sharp with the scent of dirt, sweat, and cheap rations. Overhead, gulls cried faintly in the distance, mocking the recruits who wouldn't see the world beyond the Walls anytime soon—if ever.
And at the center of it all, Keith Shadis, drill instructor and destroyer of teenage egos, paced like a predator ready to pounce. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his glare swept across the recruits like the swing of an executioner's blade.
"Welcome, maggots!" Shadis barked, voice cutting through the chatter like a thunderclap. "You've taken your first step toward becoming soldiers of humanity! But let me make something clear—"
His boot slammed into the dirt. "—ninety percent of you will wash out, fail, or die. Probably die."
A ripple of unease traveled down the rows of recruits.
Eren—no, Gasper-in-Eren's-skin—stood near the middle of the formation, arms straight at his sides. He wore the standard trainee's uniform, but unlike the nervous rookies around him, his expression was oddly relaxed. Calm.
Internally, though, his thoughts were far from calm.
Oh, great. Here comes Baldy Shadis with his motivational "you're all worthless trash" speech. Does he practice this in front of a mirror? Shine the head, scare the children, rinse and repeat.
The instructor's rant was briefly interrupted by a comedic tragedy: Sasha Blouse had, in her infinite wisdom, decided to smuggle a potato into training.
Shadis stopped mid-sentence, eyes bulging like he'd just caught a titan in uniform.
"Recruit!" he roared, looming over Sasha. "Why in the name of the Walls are you eating… during roll call?!"
The entire formation stiffened, some recruits holding back laughter, others horrified.
Sasha froze, halfway through her bite, then sheepishly held out the potato like a peace offering. "It's… it's just half a potato, sir. I was hungry."
The silence that followed could have cracked stone.
Eren's lip twitched. Half a potato, she says. Bold strategy, Potato Girl but your fate is sealed.
Shadis's face contorted into something unholy. The man didn't yell—he screeched. Orders flew, punishment was doled out, and Sasha was reduced to running laps until her soul left her body.
"Honestly…" Armin whispered from beside Eren, pale as a ghost. "Who brings food to roll call?"
Eren muttered back without missing a beat. "A hero."
Mikasa's sharp eyes flicked toward him briefly, a silent behave.
Eren smirked inwardly. Relax, Mikasa. I'm just warming up.
Later, when the recruits were given some freedom to mingle, tensions inevitably flared. Jean Kirstein, with his smug smirk and perpetual air of superiority, had taken the spotlight.
Eren watched Jean's eyes lock onto Mikasa as she tied back her long hair. Ah yes, the birth of Jean's ill-fated crush.
He couldn't resist.
"Mikasa," Eren said loud enough for nearby recruits to hear, his tone laced with faux seriousness. "You should cut your hair. Long hair is dangerous in training—gets in the way. Better keep it short."
Mikasa blinked at him, a faint frown tugging at her lips. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could—
Jean spun around, bristling like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on. "Hey! Don't tell her what to do!"
Eren turned, feigning innocence. "What? I'm just looking out for her safety. You wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her, right?"
The subtle stress on the word "bad" made Jean's ears turn red.
Hook, line, and sinker, Eren thought, biting back a grin. Oh Jean, you poor background character. Forever chasing after a girl who already belongs to the protagonist. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion.
Mikasa's gaze lingered on him, unreadable, but she didn't argue. Instead, she gave the faintest nod. That only made Jean's teeth grind louder.
The next day brought the test every recruit dreaded: the vertical maneuvering equipment assessment. Harnesses, wires, gas propulsion—humanity's desperate attempt to mimic flight. And the single barrier that separated soldiers from civilian washouts.
Recruits strapped in one by one, instructors barking at them to maintain balance while suspended upside down.
When Eren's turn came, he hefted the gear onto his shoulders with practiced ease. Inside, though, a sharp spike of irritation gnawed at him.
…Oh, of course. Faulty gear. Thanks, universe. Really appreciate the cliché. Can't wait for the inspirational "prove them wrong" speech afterward.
The straps bit into his shoulders, the harness uneven. He tested the balance, already knowing it was off. One side sagged lower than the other.
I could just tell them, get a replacement… but where's the fun in that? Let's play the role properly. "Struggling rookie who triumphs despite faulty equipment." Classic.
He climbed onto the frame, body tense. The world tilted—shaky, unbalanced—but he gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance, compensating for the flaw. Cables snapped taut, and for a heart-stopping second he dangled—then stabilized.
The instructors murmured, watching closely.
From the sidelines, Armin clutched his hands together. Mikasa's eyes never left him.
And Eren—Gasper—just smirked. Relax, everyone. I've got plot armor.
After several agonizing minutes, Eren dismounted, sweat beading his brow. Shadis's stern gaze bore into him, but for once, the man gave a curt nod.
"You pass."
Relief rippled through the onlookers.
Armin exhaled shakily. "That was amazing, Eren. I thought you were going to fall for sure."
"Pft. Falling's not my style," Eren replied, rolling his shoulders. Internally, though, his thoughts shifted.
Faulty equipment, huh? But I managed. Guess even fate wants me to play hero. Still… this isn't DxD anymore. I should test my abilities.
That night, lying in the cramped barracks while snores filled the air, Eren stared at the ceiling. The moonlight spilling through the cracks painted pale lines across his face.
He reached inward, prodding at the strange ability he'd once used so freely back in the DxD world: the power to create new abilities, albeit with a flaw attached.
Nothing.
The connection felt muted. Stifled. Like a locked door.
…So that's it, huh? This ability only works in the world I got it. In DxD. Figures. Would've been too easy otherwise.
He exhaled slowly, frustration simmering beneath the calm.
Fine. God of Acting still works. Master of Strings still works. I don't need everything. I just need enough to outplay this world.
Even then I plan to deliberately restrain myself. Why?
Because I to frickin overpowered. If I captitalize on every chance using the full extent of my powers it will be just to easy. So I will only use it a little.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Speaking of outplaying… Historia. Sweet, timid little Historia. Future queen with royal blood. Key to the Founding Titan. She's not just important—she's essential. But how do I get close without spooking her?
His thoughts drifted, darker now, tinged with amusement.
Ah. Ymir. The wildcard. Technically ancient, practically a granny, but stuck in a teenage body. A cougar in denial. If I dangle the right bait… maybe she'll bite. Win her over, let her cozy up to Historia, then slide myself into the picture. Middleman strategy. Efficient.
He chuckled quietly, drawing a sleepy groan from the bunkmate beside him.
This world doesn't know it yet, but I'm not here just to "kill titans." No… I'm here to rewrite everything. And Historia's the key piece on the board.
Eren closed his eyes, the plan crystallizing in his mind. Outside, the night stretched on, unaware that within its shadows, schemes were already taking root.
End of Chapter 29