---
Dawn had barely touched the horizon when Eren moved.
The road ahead was uneven, rutted with the tracks of carts long abandoned. Dust clung to his boots and clothes, mingling with ash from fires that still smoked in the distance. The wind carried nothing but cold, empty air, brushing against his face and tugging at his hair.
Every shadow between the scattered ruins, every twitch of movement among broken carts and collapsed walls, made him flinch. His senses were alive in a way they hadn't been days before, every sound, every scent sharpened by the hunger gnawing beneath his ribs. It was patient and insistent, not loud, not commanding—just a constant pressure, a reminder that efficiency and survival were inseparable.
Eren adjusted the strap of his pack and kept moving, boots crunching over gravel, over scattered ash, over dirt turned to mud from last night's frost. The village he had passed the night before lay behind him, broken and silent. Smoke still rose from the rubble of burned houses, curling upward like the fingers of ghosts reaching for the sky.
A rustle of leaves and a soft snap of a twig drew his attention. Two wolves emerged from the underbrush, thin and mangy, their yellow eyes catching the faint light like shards of amber. They moved low, muscles coiled, watching him.
He didn't flinch.
Eren's hand twitched at his side—not for a weapon yet, but for movement. Efficiency had taught him to wait, to calculate, to see the first strike before committing.
The first wolf lunged. He sidestepped easily, letting its momentum carry it past. With a swift motion, his foot found its flank. The creature yelped, staggering, but not enough to bring fear.
The second wolf circled, more cautious.
Eren didn't wait. He struck fast, precise, letting instinct guide him. When the last wolf fell, silence reclaimed the morning.
The hunger stirred in response, a pulse, intimate and alien. Not satisfaction, not fullness, but recognition. Growth. Direction. A thrill that had nothing to do with morality. He flexed his fingers, testing the newfound precision in his grip, the subtle increase in strength. The world felt sharper.
The road stretched further east, lined with more ruins. Broken carts, collapsed walls, and the skeletal remains of buildings reminded him that humans once had lived here. Now, only the wind moved among them, carrying the scent of decay and ash.
Eren scavenged methodically. Coins in a dented chest, a half-rotted loaf of bread, dried meat tucked in a cracked crate. Nothing luxurious, nothing to sate the hunger fully—but enough to sustain. Efficiency demanded that he take what he needed and move.
As he gathered his supplies, movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Not a wolf this time, not a predator he could see clearly. Just a faint shadow shifting between ruined walls. A human, perhaps. Or another scavenger.
He crouched, silent, weighing options. Ignore them? Observe? Approach?
Hunger whispered, subtle as ever, guiding not with words but with a pull in his gut. Efficiency demanded observation first, patience second, violence—if necessary—last.
He stayed still, waiting. The shadow shifted, then receded into the ruins. A figure smaller than a full-grown adult, hunched, shuffling with careful steps. Eren let it go. No reward, no gain. Observation alone was enough.
The road continued, narrow and flanked by low hills. Beyond them, the first glimmers of a forest appeared, its edges dark and heavy with mist. The air smelled different here—damp, earthy, carrying the faint tang of moss and rotting wood. It would harbor predators, scavengers, and monsters alike.
He paused, resting his hand on a ruined cart, surveying the hills. The morning sun had climbed higher, but it did not warm him. Its light revealed only ash, dust, and ruin. He flexed his legs, muscles burning faintly from the walk, a reminder that movement was survival, and inaction was a slow death.
Hunger tugged again, a quiet pressure beneath his ribs. He ignored it. Not yet. Not now. Survival required patience.
The forest loomed closer. Low sounds came from it—leaves rustling, distant snapping of twigs. A squirrel? A fox? Or something else? His instincts coiled tighter. Efficiency demanded awareness of every step. Every sound mattered. Every choice was a potential mistake.
A sudden movement—smaller this time—caught his eye. A scavenger, human-shaped, crouching near a half-collapsed wall, trying to remain unseen. Hunger tugged slightly, not at him, but through him—a subtle nudge. Observation first, patience, not interference.
Eren's thoughts drifted, briefly. These ruins, the predators, the scavengers—they were all lessons. Each choice tested efficiency, morality, patience, and strength. And each choice built him, shaped him. He had already crossed a line he couldn't unmake. The echo of that decision lingered, faint, but present.
A noise closer now: the soft hiss of a predator brushing through underbrush. Eren froze. It was small, low, deliberate. His eyes narrowed. The creature emerged from the trees—a scavenger wolf, smaller than the first ones, but quicker, sharper. Hunger nudged him, subtle but insistent.
He watched it, waited. Efficiency dictated the first strike. Timing was everything. A single misstep and the predator could wound him, drain his stamina, slow his journey.
It lunged. Eren sidestepped, letting it pass, then caught it with a sharp movement, collapsing it in silence. His breathing remained steady, controlled, even as the hunger pulsed, acknowledging the kill, rewarding the precision, the patience.
He scavenged a final time before leaving the ruins. A few coins, scraps of food, a cracked vial of water—nothing enough to sate hunger, but enough to maintain momentum.
The road stretched onward. Hills rose on either side, forest encroaching from the east, shadows lengthening as the morning progressed. Eren walked, boots crunching over gravel and ash. Every step measured. Every sense alert. Every instinct sharpened by the hunger, by experience, by survival.
By midday, he reached the edge of the forest. Mist hovered low over the ground, and the trees were thick, their trunks like columns, their branches blotting out sunlight. Movement could be anywhere—predators, scavengers, monsters—waiting to strike.
He paused, studying the forest. The hunger was quiet, patient, but present. Eren flexed his fingers. The world had changed beneath him. He had changed. And every choice from here on would matter more than before.
With careful steps, he entered the forest, shadows swallowing him as the road disappeared. The wind carried ash and moss, distant howls, and the subtle tension of a world that would not wait for mercy.
The hunger slept. For now.
But Eren did not trust it.