Time passed quickly. January slipped by in silence, and by the first thaw of the new year, the last Titans wandering within Wall Maria had been completely exterminated by the Scout Regiment.
Humanity had finally reclaimed the territory it had lost for over a century. For the first time in living memory, the banners of the Scouts fluttered freely above the ruins of the outer wall.
Within the walls, the people rejoiced.
The entire continent seemed to exhale in relief. Every street, every home, was filled with a light that had not existed for years—a fragile hope reborn.
For ordinary citizens, the meaning of victory was simple:
The Titans could be defeated.
The terror that had defined generations was no longer untouchable. Families spoke of rebuilding their homes beyond the wall, of replanting the fields buried under rubble and ash. Refugees who had once fled from Wall Maria dreamed of returning to their old villages.
The joy was almost overwhelming, but beneath it ran another truth: people's hearts were selfish.
Most celebrated not for the freedom of humanity, but for their own return to comfort. Few were like Commander Erwin, who dedicated every breath to humanity's future beyond the walls. Most simply wanted to return to normal life—to forget that Titans ever existed.
Lock, however, had no time for celebration.
His days since promotion had been filled with relentless work. After being named Deputy Commander of the Scouts—second only to Erwin himself—he'd been granted the authority to recruit and command an independent strike division of three hundred soldiers.
In less than a month, the unit was fully formed.
Though it bore the Scout Regiment's insignia, everyone in headquarters knew these soldiers were Lock's alone—bound to him by loyalty, not bureaucracy.
He had personally chosen them from the underground city beneath Mitras—the forgotten world of thieves, orphans, and survivors who had never seen sunlight. Men and women who owed their new lives to him. Soldiers who would never betray him.
With Rod Reiss's quiet backing and the resources that came with it, Lock's division trained with better rations, sharper blades, and newer maneuver gear than any other regiment. Each soldier was handpicked, hardened, and loyal.
In contrast, the rest of the Scout Regiment—whose official size had been raised to fifteen hundred—still struggled to fill even a third of its ranks. The royal government's "promise of expansion" had proven little more than a political gesture, its funding conveniently delayed.
Among the ranks, frustration simmered. But Erwin Smith, ever calculating, remained composed. He understood that patience was a weapon too.
Meanwhile, Captain Levi and the Special Operations Squad had returned from missions along Wall Rose, assisting in security and recovery. The Scouts, though temporarily at peace, were far from idle. Patrols continued. Training never stopped.
For Lock, every day began before dawn.
The training grounds near the reclaimed district echoed with the rhythmic thump of boots striking the frozen soil.
He ran ten kilometers before sunrise—often twice that—his breath steady, his pace never faltering. The soldiers watched in disbelief; even after finishing, Lock could still speak easily, offering brief instructions to Petra Rall, Eld Jinn, and the others who had joined him.
At noon, his regiment trained in close-quarters combat and maneuver techniques. Lock fought alongside them personally, facing entire squads at once. Even a dozen soldiers could barely keep up with him.
Years of combat and discipline had refined his body into something beyond ordinary human limits. He could not rip a Titan apart barehanded—but with proper gear, a Pure Titan was no longer a serious threat.
As for the Intelligent Titans—the Nine—Lock had studied each one closely. He knew their weaknesses, their limitations. Should he ever face one again, he was confident in his odds.
They knew little of him.
He knew everything about them.
Afternoons were devoted to weapon drills.
Vertical maneuver training. Precision targeting with pistols. Blade transitions. Coordinated thunder-spear formations.
Lock's division wasn't designed solely to fight Titans; it was built to fight humans if necessary. Every soldier was drilled in urban tactics, ambush maneuvers, and silent elimination.
Lock personally led every exercise. He called out every soldier by name, demanding precision from each of them. His presence alone commanded silence and focus.
When training ended, the field was littered with exhausted men and women lying flat on the cold earth—breathing hard, drenched in sweat—but smiling.
For them, exhaustion was joy.
Only a few months ago, they'd been nameless beggars hiding beneath the capital's streets, starving and forgotten. Now they wielded the finest gear in humanity's army, slept under real roofs, and ate warm meals.
Pain meant life. Training meant purpose. And Lock—their savior, their commander—had given them both.
No one among them wished to return to the darkness below the city ever again.
After the day's drills ended, Lock left the training ground, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His soldiers straightened and saluted, admiration glowing in their eyes.
He nodded in acknowledgment and made his way back to his quarters in the restored barracks.
Waiting at the door was Historia Reiss—still using her old alias among most of the regiment. She held a bundle of fresh linens and greeted him with a bright smile.
"Welcome back, Deputy Commander," she said warmly.
Lock raised an eyebrow, noticing her outfit—a simple service uniform, far neater than what she usually wore.
"Historia," he said with mild amusement, "you don't have to play servant here."
She blinked innocently. "Ymir insisted. She said I should at least try to look like I belong above ground."
Lock sighed lightly. "That does sound like her."
As if summoned by name, Ymir appeared from the adjoining hallway, leaning lazily against the wall with her usual grin.
"So? Not bad, right?" she teased. "Doesn't she look perfect for the role? Everyone loves a tidy little helper."
Lock gave her a flat look. "You should spend less time joking and more time training. You've been avoiding drills for days."
Ymir feigned shock. "Avoiding? I call it recovering. We just finished a war, you know."
"Recovery ends tomorrow," Lock said dryly. "You'll join the combat group for physical training at sunrise."
Her grin faltered. "You're serious, aren't you?"
He nodded once. "You still rely too much on your Titan power. Strength and skill matter even more. You'll train like everyone else."
Ymir groaned, muttering curses under her breath. Historia tried to stifle a laugh.
"And what about me?" Historia asked softly.
Lock's expression softened. "If you're willing, you can join too. Light drills only."
Her eyes brightened immediately. "I will."
Ymir frowned. "You don't have to do everything he says, you know."
"I want to," Historia said simply. "He's given us this chance. I won't waste it."
For a moment, Lock looked at her—really looked. The fragile girl who once hid her name now stood straighter, her resolve quietly burning.
He smiled faintly. "Then it's settled. Training starts at dawn."
That evening, Petra entered the quarters carrying a pot of steaming stew, the rich scent filling the air.
"Dinner's ready," she announced. "Don't tell me you're still talking about drills."
Lock chuckled. "Always. It's the only language we all seem to understand."
Ymir flopped onto a chair. "He was just giving another speech about discipline and duty," she said with mock exhaustion. "Maybe he should start teaching at the Military Academy."
Petra laughed. "That might not be a bad idea."
The four of them sat around the table—Lock, Petra, Historia, and Ymir—the room lit only by a small lamp. For a brief moment, it felt almost normal. Peaceful.
But beneath that fragile calm, Lock's mind was elsewhere.
Soon, the reconstruction of Wall Maria would be complete. The Military Police and Garrison would pull more soldiers westward, leaving the capital's defenses thinned.
It would create opportunities.
Opportunities to move freely.
To search for answers about the Titans.
And most of all—to find a way to bring back the one person he couldn't forget.
Dana Fritz.
He still carried her memory like a hidden wound, buried beneath his discipline.
Someday soon, he swore, he would find a way to undo what had been done to her.
For now, though, he let the warmth of the room sink in—the laughter, the sound of spoons clinking against bowls, the faint smell of stew.
Peace was rare. Even temporary peace was worth remembering.
Outside, snow began to fall again, light and quiet, dusting the rebuilt rooftops of Wall Maria.
Tomorrow, training will resume.
Tomorrow, the fight would continue.
But tonight, humanity's wings rested—just for a moment.
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