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The sunset was a bloody smear across the sky, a fitting backdrop for the procession of weary failure trudging into the Survey Corps courtyard. The investigation teams returned not with triumphant shouts, but with the silent, heavy gait of men carrying the weight of a phantom. Dust clung to their green cloaks, and their faces were etched with a frustration that was slowly curdling into superstitious dread.
Erwin stood on the headquarters' stone steps, a bastion of stoic authority. His left hand was tucked formally behind his back, a calculated pose, but the pristine white bandage encasing his right forearm was a glaring testament to a vulnerability they could all feel. Levi stood slightly behind his left shoulder, a study in contained violence, his grey eyes missing nothing. To his right, Mike was as always, quite the silent sentinel.
Team by team, they reported their failure. Mat's squad had found nothing but jumpy farmers and a butchered sheep that could have been a wolf's work. Gelgar's team had a second-hand account of a "shadow that moved wrong" from a hermit who also claimed to speak to the Walls. Each report was a nail in the coffin of their momentum. The "Demon Dog" was proving to be a ghost, and ghosts couldn't be fought with steel.
Then, Squad Leader Rolf's team entered the courtyard.
A subtle shift occurred. They weren't jubilant, but they weren't broken. They moved with the orderly, practiced weariness of a squad returning from a standard, if long, patrol. There were no visible wounds, no haunted stares, no limps. They fell into a neat line, a picture of military discipline.
Erwin's eyes did not widen, but the intensity of his focus sharpened, zeroing in on them. Levi's arms, already crossed, tightened slightly. Mike's nostrils for some reason flared, a deeper, more deliberate intake of air.
Rolf stepped forward and saluted. "Commander. Squad Leader Rolf, reporting."
"Proceed," Erwin said, his voice a flat, calm lake giving nothing away.
"We conducted a full investigation of the 103rd's second quadrant, sir," Rolf began, his tone a perfect blend of respect and fatigue. "The head instructor, a man named Kent, was… dismissive. Called our inquiry a 'chase after fairy tales.' We proceeded to question cadets and conduct a perimeter sweep regardless." He held up a cloth-wrapped object. "We found this affixed to a storage shed door on the western edge of the grounds."
He unwrapped it. Nestled in the cloth was a splintered piece of wood. Carved into it were four savage, parallel gouges, deep enough to have torn through the grain.
Hange, who had been hovering nearby like a restless specter, pushed forward, her glasses glinting. "The spacing… the depth… It's a perfect match for the marks on my desk!" she whispered, a mix of horror and scientific excitement in her voice.
"We also confirmed the tracks, Commander," Rolf continued, seamlessly weaving the truth into his lie. "Strongest around an old, derelict latrine. It seems the creature used it as a den. It was vacant by the time we arrived, but we picked up the trail. We tracked it east for several miles, into the forest. The trail eventually went cold near a rocky stream-bed. The creature is cunning. It knows how to break its own trail."
The report was immaculate. It provided physical evidence, confirmed the creature's presence, explained their extended absence with a plausible, diligent pursuit, and even managed to sound professionally disappointed. However, it was the report Erwin wanted to hear.
It was too good.
Mike, who had been slowly scanning the squad, let out a low, almost inaudible grunt. His gaze had settled on the scout standing at attention as one of the scouts in the group; Foss. The real Foss was a man of simple habits; he smelled of cheap pipe tobacco, the particular oil he used on his ODM gear, and the honest stink of horse and earth.
However, he smelled of sandalwood soap and beeswax polish. It was a clean, expensive, almost sterile scent, the kind used by courtiers in Wall Sina to mask the world. It clung to him like a foreign skin, utterly alien in this dusty courtyard.
Mike's voice, a low rumble that cut through the murmurs, was deceptively casual. "You smell different, Foss. Expensive if you ask me."
The air in the courtyard grew still. All eyes, which had been glazed over with boredom, snapped to the scout.
The man; Foss; froze. It was a full-body lock of pure, unscripted panic. His eyes darted, just for a microsecond, towards Rolf before snapping back to attention. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
"I, uh… we… we found a merchant's abandoned pack during the sweep, sir," he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. "In one of the gullies. There was a cake of fancy soap inside. After days tracking that… thing… we all took the chance for a proper wash-up in the stream. Felt like we'd earned it, sir."
The excuse hung in the air, flimsy and reeking of desperation. Scouts on a critical mission for a man-eating monster don't pause their hunt for a spa day. Levi didn't move, but his gaze became a physical weight, a promise of a slow, meticulous dissection.
Erwin's face remained an impassive mask. He held Foss' gaze for a long, silent moment; a moment that stretched into an eternity for the impostors. Then, his eyes slowly panned across the rest of Rolf's team. Duran, Lya, Ray. They were statues, their faces carefully blank, but the tension radiating from them was a palpable force.
"Resourceful," Erwin commented, his tone utterly unreadable. He gave a curt nod. "You are all dismissed. Get some hot food and rest. You've had a long few days."
The spell was broken. The other scouts, picking up on the dismissal, began to shuffle away, the strange incident already being dismissed as another of Mike's weird quirks. Rolf's team turned with disciplined precision and marched towards the barracks.
The moment they were out of earshot, Levi let out a quiet, contemptuous snort.
"Tch. Looked like they were about to shit their pants," he muttered, his eyes still fixed on their retreating backs. "Especially the 'clean' one. If that's the face of earned rest, I'm the Queen of Sina."
Mike's low rumble was grim. "It's not just him. The whole squad… their scents are off. Muted. Like they're wrapped in waxed canvas. And that one does smell of the Interior. Not a hint of the field on him."
Erwin stood silent for a moment longer, his mind a whirlwind of calculation. He replayed the scene: the flawless report, the convenient evidence, the just-so explanation for their absence, and then the sudden, panicked crack in one of his men funder the slightest pressure.
"They gave us everything we asked for," Erwin said, his voice low and dangerous. "Confirmation. A trail. A reason. It was a perfect, closed loop. Too perfect. It's the story you tell to end questions, not to further an investigation."
"Levi," Erwin commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They are to be watched. I don't want a single one of them leaving without you knowing when. Mike, I want you to be their shadow. Learn this new, 'muted' scent. Find the source of the wax. Find the crack, and we will tear down the wall."
As Levi gave a sharp nod and melted into the gathering darkness, and Mike moved to find a downwind perch, Erwin remained on the steps. Something about them just felt wrong.
Scout Barracks - Empty Storage Closet, Evening…
The door clicked shut, plunging the four scouts occupied within into oppressive darkness. The second it was closed, the impeccable military discipline evaporated.
Rolf spun around, his composed facade shattering into a mask of pure, incandescent rage. He slammed Foss against the wall, the impact jarring a sack of grain and sending a puff of dust into the sliver of moonlight.
"You brainless, pampered, Sina-born idiot!" Rolf snarled, his voice a strangled whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout. "A 'proper wash-up'?! Did you leave your wits in that noble's shithouse you were spawned in?!"
Foss, whose heart was hammering against his ribs, struggled. "He smelled me, Sir Edric! That animal has no right to a nose that sharp! He smelled the polish on my boots! What was I supposed to say?!"
"You were supposed to keep your mouth shut and look tired!" 'Rolf', now identified as Edric hissed before shoving him away in disgust. He paced the tiny space, a caged tiger.
"By the Eternal Forge, I am surrounded by incompetent children playing at being soldiers! We are in the belly of the beast, executing the most critical deception of our lives, and you stroll in here smelling like you just left a fucking salon! We are supposed to smell like sweat and dirt and failure, not a goddamn perfumery!"
"It was just a drop of scented oil! The mask's polymer requires it to prevent facial cracking!" the knight posing as 'Ray' interjected, his own voice tight with fear.
"SILENCE!" Edric's command was a whip-crack in the dark. He turned his fury back on Foss. "And you! Wearing that expensive, Sina-tier boot polish on a field mission? Are you actively trying to get us all strung up from the gate? Is this a suicide mission for you?!"
The accumulated stress and the unfairness of it all boiled over in 'Foss'. "Maybe if the ID Masks the order supplied weren't such fragile, high-maintenance pieces of junk that require specific balms to keep from glitching, we wouldn't be in this mess! It's not my fault the tech is finicky!"
That was the final straw.
In a blur of motion, Edric stepped forward and headbutted 'Foss' square in the forehead.
THWOCK.
It wasn't a blow meant to concuss, but to disrupt. A jolt of greenish energy flickered across the scout's face. The perfectly rendered features of "Foss" dissolved into a static-filled haze, pixels scrambling to hold form. For a horrifying second, the sharp, pale, and utterly terrified face of another person; a fellow forever knight; was visible, his real eyes wide with shock, before the ID Mask recalibrated with a sharp fizz-pop and snapped back into place, once again displaying Foss's weary visage.
The other two knights stared, breath held.
Edric leaned in, his nose almost touching the knight's, his voice a deadly, venomous whisper. "Phil, You. Will. Keep. This. Mask. ON. You will not speak unless ordered. You will not bathe. You will roll in the pigsty if I command it. Do you understand the precariousness of our situation? One more slip… one more… and I will personally ensure your 'glitch' becomes permanent."
Foss, now identified as Phil, clutched his throbbing head and could only nod, his bravado utterly crushed.
Edric stepped back, his own "Rolf" mask settling into a grimace of profound exasperation. "That man, Mike… he's a problem. A freak of nature. I hope he fucking chokes on a Titan's fart on the next expedition." He took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of dust and fear filling his lungs. "The only silver lining is that we're still in the clear. Erwin is suspicious, but he has no proof. Our story is watertight. We need to be careful."
He looked at each of them, his expression grim. "Our new orders are simple. We become ghosts. We eat, we sleep, we speak to no one. We are the most boring, unremarkable scouts in this entire regiment. It's only a matter of time until a mind like Erwin's pieces it together."
A cold, confident smile finally touched Edric's lips, unseen beneath his disguise.
"But by then, it will be far too late. Valerius and the Silent Knight are already a knife in the dark. The purge at the 103rd will be over, the specimen will be secured, and we will be long gone from this den of suicidal idealists. Our mission is almost complete. So, for the last time… do not screw this up."
He opened the door a crack, his eyes scanning the empty hallway. "Now, get out. And try to look like you belong here."
One by one, they slipped out, returning to their roles, their perfect disguises hiding the frantic fear beneath. The game was still on, but the margin for error had just vanished.
Chapter 25-31 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.