There is something curious about irreversible decisions.
Most people believe they can recognize them.
Important moments.
Instants filled with tension.
Scenarios where everything seems to stop... as if the world itself were waiting for an answer.
But it doesn't work like that.
The decisions that truly matter...
don't feel any different.
There is no weight in the air.
No clarity.
No warning.
Just one more movement.
One step.
One word.
One barely perceptible gesture.
And after that...
there is no going back.
The most interesting part is not the act itself.
It's what happens afterward.
People tend to think of consequences as something external.
Punishments.
Results.
Reactions.
But the real consequence...
is internal.
Something breaks.
Not in a visible way.
Not in a dramatic way.
Something more precise.
The possibility of having been something else... is lost.
No matter how much time passes afterward.
No matter how much they try.
No matter how many excuses they construct to justify it.
There is a version of themselves...
that ceases to exist in that instant.
And the most unsettling part...
is that almost no one notices.
They keep talking.
They keep breathing.
They keep making decisions.
But they are no longer the same.
Not because they changed.
But because they closed.
Like a door that never opens again.
Not because it is locked.
But because it no longer leads anywhere.
...
I suppose that's what people fear when they talk about "hell."
Not the pain.
Not the punishment.
But the impossibility of going back.
The certainty that, even if they wanted to...
there is nothing left to return to.
...
I take a step.
The sound of still-wet ink gives way beneath my boot.
It shouldn't be like this by now.
But the process was... rushed.
The presses are still running.
Who knows for how much longer.
The mechanical rhythm continues.
As if the place had not understood what happened here.
Or maybe it did.
And simply doesn't care.
The bodies are where they fell.
Some over the tables.
Others beside the machines.
One... still holds a crumpled sheet between its fingers.
The ink has run.
The letters distorted.
But it's still readable.
I don't need to get closer to know what it says.
I wrote it.
Half truth.
Half lie.
Real names.
Real positions.
Real decisions.
Conclusions...
conveniently altered.
Just enough that no one can ignore it.
Not enough that anyone can completely refute it.
That is the balance.
At this point...
it should already be circulating.
I don't need to intervene anymore. It was enough for the guard in charge of the place to deliver the finished newspapers to the supply carriage.
Main streets.
Inner districts.
Checkpoints.
At least... it should be enough for now.
CRISIS IN THE CENTRAL GOVERNMENT
Possible irregularities within the crown generate tension across multiple districts
For the first time in decades, internal sources have begun leaking contradictory information regarding the functioning of the royal administration.
Various reports —some verified, others still under investigation— suggest that key decisions made by the Military Police and high-ranking government officials may not have responded to the interests of the population, but rather to unknown directives from an undeclared superior authority.
RESTRICTIONS AND INFORMATION CONTROL
Testimonies collected in the districts of Trost and Stohess indicate that:Expeditions beyond the walls have been blocked without clear justification.
Access to technological advancements developed by independent engineers has been restricted.
Official documents may have been altered before public circulation.
...
A FALSE AUTHORITY?
For a few seconds, no one says anything.
Only the sound of paper slowly crumpling.
"Multiple sources agree on one alarming point..."
Armin's eyes trace the line again and again, as if expecting the words to change on their own.
"...there exists a figure above the visible system..."
His breathing becomes irregular.
"The name... Rod Reiss..."
His fingers tremble.
"W-what...?"
Silence.
Jean exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if all of this had already exhausted him before it even began.
"At least... they didn't pin us as fugitives on the front page."
His tone is flat.
No real relief.
"I guess that's progress."
He lowers his gaze to the floor.
His pupils tremble slightly.
"I don't think anyone will care what a piece of paper says when they decide to kill us anyway."
A short pause.
Uncomfortable.
"I thought I'd die out there..."
"...not cornered inside the walls."
Silence returns.
Heavier.
"Don't say that..."
Armin's voice is low.
But firm.
"We have to keep going."
He tightens his grip on the newspaper.
"We have to keep going. Thanks to Commander Erwin, we have a chance. He acted quickly, and because of that we gathered important information, right?"
His gaze sharpens.
"It has to be that funeral house... placing the two coffins there... it can't be for nothing. It has to be there!!"
The supply carriage will move at a constant distance behind the coffins, close enough not to lose sight of them, but without becoming obvious to anyone observing the route carefully.
Until the moment of contact, we cannot afford to lose focus on the primary objective.
It is not a particularly safe method.
But it is the most viable one.
Especially considering that, for most of those present, this will be the first time facing other humans in a real combat scenario.
...
And even so...
the feeling that something has already gone wrong persists.
Not in the movements.
Not in the plan.
But... in the information.
----------------------------------------
BANG.
BANG.
The sound tears through the air with a violence completely unlike that of cannons or the roar of titans. It is dry. Compact. Too precise.
Jean is the first to react.
"Are they getting closer...?"
His brows knit together, tension unhidden. His gaze scans the surroundings, searching for something he still doesn't understand.
Armin doesn't respond immediately.
He keeps looking forward, completely still, but the slight tremor in his hands betrays his true state.
It's not just fear.
It's... recognition.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, but firm.
"It must be like Commander Erwin said... they have superior technology. Something that allows them to move... and fire at a much higher speed than us."
He swallows.
"Even so..."
A minimal pause.
"It's impossible for any soldier to match Captain Levi Ackerman."
...
His fingers tighten around the reins.
Too much.
"But... that's not what worries me."
Jean glances at him.
"Then what—?"
Armin hesitates.
Just a second.
"They... knew exactly where we were going to pass."
...
The comment lingers in the air.
No one responds.
But no one dismisses it either.
—
"There's the funeral carriage!"
Mikasa's voice cuts through the tension.
The carriage appears from the side street just a second later, speeding past them, kicking up dust and dragging with it a sense of urgency that becomes impossible to ignore.
Everything happens too fast.
But not fast enough.
...
Because this time...
it doesn't feel like an improvised ambush.
It feels prepared.
—
Before they can move to follow—
A figure enters their field of vision.
It doesn't fall.
It doesn't appear.
It moves.
Levi cuts through the air using the ODM gear with precision that borders on the unreal, his movements chaining perfectly as two soldiers pursue him from different angles.
"What... is that...?"
Connie's voice breaks in disbelief.
"It's... ODM gear... but—"
His eyes widen even more.
"They're using guns...!"
At that exact moment, one of the pursuers fires.
The projectile slices through the air with a sharp whistle.
Levi barely tilts his body—just enough for the shot to pass by—and in that same motion his hook embeds into a nearby structure, launching him forward with brutal speed.
No pause.
No correction.
Only execution.
His blade traces a clean arc.
Too clean.
The soldier's body separates almost completely before his mind can process what has happened.
"H-he killed him..." Connie murmurs, unable to look away.
—
Armin reacts.
Without hesitation, he strikes his horse, forcing it forward at full speed.
The others follow immediately.
But his mind... is not on the pursuit.
...
His expression hardens slightly.
He says nothing.
Above them, Levi keeps moving.
Every trajectory is calculated.
Every impulse responds to an exact reading of the environment.
"It's a signal."
Mikasa adjusts direction without hesitation.
"Go left."
The group obeys immediately, shifting at precisely the right moment.
A second later—
Levi descends from the top of a house, his figure falling with millimetric precision before landing directly on the back of the carriage.
The impact is clean.
"C-Captain?!" Armin reacts, turning immediately.
Levi doesn't waste time.
"Stop chasing the funeral carriage."
His voice is dry.
Sharp.
Final.
"We've been completely discovered."
—
Silence falls instantly.
Heavy.
Undeniable.
—
"...How?" Jean murmurs, almost unwilling to say it out loud.
Levi doesn't respond immediately.
His gaze moves across the group.
One by one.
Evaluating.
Measuring.
As if searching for something.
Or someone.
...
But they're not there.
"That doesn't matter right now."
---------------------------------
An arm slides around my shoulders with a naturalness that, in any other context, might be mistaken for camaraderie.
The weight is firm.
Certain.
Familiar.
The man beside me smiles without restraint, letting out an open, almost scandalous laugh, while his eyes—sharp, alive—tremble with a kind of amusement he doesn't bother to hide.
Kenny Ackerman.
"Ohhh... I really didn't expect this." His voice drags the words out with pleasure, as if savoring each syllable. "You're definitely an interesting one..."
His arm tightens slightly, pulling me a little closer, as if making sure no one else hears what he's about to say.
"I'm glad I accepted your proposal."
His laughter bursts out again, lower this time, heavier.
"Selling out your comrades just like that..." he shakes his head, entertained. "HA... you really do carry my blood, huh, brat."
...
I keep my gaze fixed on his face.
There is no rejection.
No approval.
Only an absolute stillness that borders on boredom.
"It's not that impressive..." I reply, my tone unchanged. "I just want to make sure I end up on the winning side."
A minimal pause.
"Not like they were my friends anyway."
...
That's enough.
Kenny's smile widens, twisting into something more honest, more raw. His hand leaves my shoulder only to ruffle my hair with a familiarity that borders on invasive.
I don't pull away.
There's no point.
"I like that..." he mutters, almost to himself. "No speeches... no unnecessary bullshit..."
He tilts his head slightly, studying me with a different kind of interest.
Deeper.
More personal.
"Just results."
...
Silence.
But it isn't empty.
It's... recognition.
Not between equals.
...
"I'm really glad I gave you that job when you were a kid, HAHA, I've got a damn good eye," Kenny suddenly cuts in, tilting his head slightly. "It's easy to tell when someone has that look... the kind that can do anything."
His smile shifts.
Sharper.
More precise.
"Don't you remember? That prostitute who was leading the princess down the wrong path?" he continues, almost amused by the word. "People with cheerful dreams are just too annoying."
Kenny lets out a loud, genuine laugh.
His eyes return to me.
"I don't know what you're talking about..." I reply without emotion. "I don't remember ever speaking to someone like that."
...
"Suicide."
...
...
"That's when I thought..." Kenny murmurs, almost in a whisper. "This brat is worth it."
He smiles again.
"And now look at us..."
I gave them everything they needed.
Levi Ackerman's patrol routes.
Movement patterns.
Erwin Smith's decisions.
Enough information to dismantle any attempt at resistance before it could even take shape.
...
Why should it matter to me?
...
If they don't have the ability to survive under these unfavorable conditions...
Then it's not my fault.
It never was.
They simply... weren't strong enough.
...
And even so...
If I had to bet—
I'd say they'll turn things around.
Not because they deserve it.
But because they're persistent.
And in this world, sometimes... that's enough.
...
Besides...
Isn't this the future you chose?
Attack Titan?
...
Footsteps begin to echo across the polished floor of the building.
They are not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Each impact carries authority even before the figure enters our field of vision.
Kenny doesn't move.
But his smile changes.
It sharpens.
As if something within him recognizes the arrival of someone above... even him.
...
The man appears.
Heavy build.
Controlled movements.
But what truly defines his presence is not his body—
it's his gaze.
Rod Reiss.
...
Finally.
Face to face.
...
The conditions are set.
The board is complete.
And every piece... has already been moved.
...
Rod Reiss walks past us without stopping.
Without even looking at us.
As if our presence were implicit.
Expected.
Already... used.
...
Kenny separates slightly from me, without losing that relaxed posture, and walks toward one of the coffins with the same ease as someone approaching a door.
I observe.
Without intervening.
There's no need.
...
Rod kneels before the other.
His hand rests on the wood with a softness that contrasts uncomfortably with everything he represents.
"The journey must have been difficult..." he murmurs, and for a moment his voice dangerously approaches something that could be mistaken for warmth. "I'm sorry..."
He lifts the lid carefully.
Too carefully.
...
...
...
...
"Hello, Eren."
There is no pause in his movement.
No gesture meant to soften what he's doing.
The lid moves aside with an almost offensive naturalness, as if there were no real difference between opening a coffin... or anything else.
...
"Historia..." Rod continues with an unnatural softness in his tone. His hands help her sit up carefully, then wrap around her in an embrace that, from the outside, could be mistaken for affection.
"I have always regretted it..."
His voice is soft.
Too soft.
...
I observe the scene in silence.
There is nothing to analyze on the surface.
The gesture.
The tone.
The posture.
Everything fits what anyone would expect to see.
A remorseful father.
A recovered daughter.
A late reconciliation.
...
But eyes don't lie.
They never do.
...
Historia's do not respond to the embrace.
They don't close.
They don't relax.
They don't seek comfort.
They remain open, rigid, fixed on a point that fails to process what stands before her.
It's not sadness.
It's not relief.
It's... rupture.
...
Beside me, Kenny lets out a low laugh.
Brief.
Almost imperceptible.
But loaded.
"Well?" he murmurs, leaning slightly toward me, just enough to invade what others would consider personal space. "Enjoying the faces of betrayal?"
...
I blink.
Once.
Slowly.
Without hurry.
Without answering.
My eyes don't move.
They remain fixed on her.
On the way her breathing fails to stabilize.
On how her hands, still free, don't push Rod away... but don't hold onto him either.
As if her body had chosen to remain...
while everything else had already withdrawn.
Even without noticing my presence.
Not that it matters.
...
There is nothing particularly interesting about betrayal.
Not in itself.
It's a simple concept.
Predictable.
Repetitive.
...
What truly matters is the moment someone understands it.
Not when it happens.
But when it can no longer be denied.
...
And that moment...
is now.
...
Historia doesn't look at me directly.
But she doesn't need to.
The slight tremor in her eyes, the minimal shift in her focus...
is enough.
...
She understands.
Not everything.
Never everything.
But enough.
...
Finally...
the greatest enemy of humanity.
Not because of his strength.
Not because of his position.
But because of what he represents.
...
The root.
The origin.
The truth.
...
A truth that doesn't free.
Doesn't protect.
Doesn't justify.
...
It only replaces one lie... with a more stable one.
...
And at the same time—
the greatest obstacle in this world.
...
Because as long as he exists—
nothing can move forward without passing through him first.
...
...
Finally.
I stand before you.
Rod Reiss.
--------------------------
Well... here's your favorite writer, Kiyokasu!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I'll be waiting for your comments—LOVE YOU ALL!!!!