Before the first light had pierced the eastern sky, Lock was already awake, moving through his morning drills with the same relentless rhythm he favored in every waking hour. The courtyard's cold stone rang with the snap of his blades and the whisper of his ODM Gear cables. He trained as if discipline could plug every hole in fate—because if he could not guarantee his own survival, then there was no right to rest.
A list had been given to Grisha. Names of corrupt officials, merchants, and men who propped up a rotten order—enough to tilt the balance in favor of the Survey Corps if many of them were removed. Lock's thoughts returned to that list between repetitions of footwork and lunges. He did not expect perfection; he expected results. Reduce resistance, and the path for the Corps to rise within the Walls would be that much clearer. Later confrontations with the Reiss line would be easier to arrange.
"The Survey Corps, Kenny Ackerman's irregulars, the three intelligent Titans the scouts spotted, Historia with her bloodline, and Dina Fritz—if we can exploit every card, it still may not be enough," he murmured to himself, feeling the weight of every piece on the invisible board.
Around him, soldiers from the Military Police and the Garrison who had been on patrol all night watched with wary curiosity. Many bore the same look: respect mixed with thinly veiled calculation. Control the Military Police and the Garrison, and control the inner politics of the Walls. It was an attractive idea—one that came with an obstacle list the size of a gate. Neil Deker's family ties were a potential lever; Pisis, an old fox in the palace, would be less obvious to influence. Lock allowed himself one small smile and pushed it away. Strategy was a slow knife; it rarely showed its edge until the moment it cut.
Soon, the camp's biological clock stirred as one. Men and women who had slept in shifts for the last two nights rolled out of their blankets and gathered for the morning muster. They had seen banners of smoke on the horizon and smelled the metallic tang of blood; sleep had been thin. Lock's drills wound down to crisp technique as squad leaders organized weapons and harnesses. Five minutes to mental checks. Ten minutes to tendon tightening. Then, the march toward breakfast and the briefing.
At the mess, conversations moved between sullen and nervous. Recruits—three hundred of them—sat in tight rows, their expressions taut with apprehension. Veterans of the Shiganshina push exchanged curt nods. The memory of that campaign still haunted many, but it had forged others into a tempered edge.
"Captain Levi may be called the strongest man alive," one of the recruits whispered to a neighbor, "but I heard rumors—he still couldn't move people like Lock."
Petra Rall glanced up from her bowl, eyes amused. Ymir, reclining with habitual unconcern, tilted her head and folded her arms. Hange's voice, high and earnest, cut through the low clatter: "He trains that much because he doesn't feel finished yet. Strength is never a finished thing."
Lock set down his cup and looked at them with the same bluntness he reserved for the field. "Because I'm not strong enough," he said simply.
Petra cocked an eyebrow. "How strong is enough?"
Lock gave a dry, small smile. "Strong enough to tear a Titan apart with my hands."
A hush fell, edged with incredulous laughter and a few tremors. The recruits' faces tightened; talk of tearing Titans with bare hands felt like a myth made of bone and stubborn pride. Hange's eyes shone with a scientist's delight and a leader's concern. "Lock, you're going into Shiganshina today, right?"
"Not just me," Lock replied. "All three hundred recruits entered today."
There was a staccato intake of breath. For veterans who had fought in the recapture of Wall Maria, the news held less dread—experience had a way of smoothing terror into grim efficiency. But for those who had never left the relative safety of inner Walls, the prospect of encountering Titans in Shiganshina for the first time hollowed out their appetites. Metal clinked as hands tightened on knives. Eyes flicked to harnesses.
Lock watched them in silence for a long moment. He understood the knot in their stomachs—he had felt it himself the first time he left the Wall. No amount of drilling could entirely remove that first, deep dread. It had to be met on the field and survived, or not. "Bring it in," Hange murmured, half-joke, half-prayer. "There are many of them. Can you look after all of them?"
Lock shrugged. "I can't take care of everyone." His voice grew colder, deliberate. "You don't fight to be taken care of. You fight to survive. Either you make it through the slaughter, or you don't. Only those who come back alive at the end of the day can call themselves strong."
A silence like a drawn sword followed. Even Ymir looked serious.
Grisha's plan was already in motion; the hour for soldiers to be hardened had grown short. Harsh lessons would be suffered, and only the necessary ones retained. The quiet austerity of the morale talk shifted the breakfast into a functional silence. No more chatter. No more nerves. Only the grinding preparation.
Equipment checks were brisk. Straps were tightened with practiced fingers. Blades were oiled and tested. Every recruit's harness was inspected by an older hand. Then, the ascent to the walls by elevator—an old mechanism, groaning but faithful. The air was thin and cold at the top. Before them, the old district spread: once-proud houses now ragged against the horizon, and between them, oddly calm, Titans wandered.
The sight of a living Titan up close never failed to steal breath. Compared to the last time the Corps had come this way, the number of Titans in Shiganshina had increased. Among them were grotesque variations—limbs bent at unnatural angles, gait stutters, odd growths that testified to the ugly unpredictability of Titan physiology. They prowled streets and courtyards, ignorant of the significance of their presence. For those who had read about Titans in maps and lessons, this was the raw, unedited version.
Lock stood before the assembled companies, cloak whipping in a steady wind. "These are Titans," he said, voice even. "We've practiced this until our arms and legs could do it blind. Today, you'll put that practice to use. Unlike drills, there are no do-overs. One mistake and you may not have comrades left to cover you. So listen: work together, watch each other's flanks, and trust your gear."
He paused, scanning faces—a patchwork of fear and determination. He fixed his gaze on Petra. The young woman nodded imperceptibly. The recruits' eyes tracked her, their silent admiration audible in the collective intake of breath.
Petra launched first.
She leapt from the wall with the fluid, confident arc of someone utterly at home with the Three-Dimensional Maneuver Gear. The initial shock in the recruits' faces melted into awe as she threaded the cables, recovered height with a sharp pull, and positioned herself behind a Titan drifting at the wall's edge. With a single, practiced strike, she severed the nape. The sound was not triumphant—only precise. The Titan fell with a dull hush that somehow felt like the world exhaling.
"Beautiful," someone breathed. "Graceful, decisive."
Petra returned to the wall and drew her cloak tight for a moment as the recruits cheered. Lock allowed himself a brief, private nod. Demonstrations were necessary. They converted fear into a template for imitation.
"Five men to a squad," Lock said, voice moving over them like a circuit of command. "Today's objective is to clear the Titans near the wall—dozens of them. We set the perimeter, then push inward as we secure pockets. Watch for irregular behavior. If a Titan shows signs of intelligence or unusual coordination, fall back and call for Corps support."
A murmur ran through the recruits; the word "intelligence" stung. Titans with intent altered everything. The old rhythms of battle—muscle memory, blade angles, timing—were not enough when the enemy could think, however poorly.
Lock tightened the straps on his own harness. The ODM Gear hummed and clicked under its tension. Today would not be about heroics; it would be about hard, methodical work. Men and women would be counted, corpses recorded, and survivors returned. The function served both the living and the strategies of the living. There was no room for sentiment.
When the squads launched, Lock moved with measured speed. He guided teams through rehearsed maneuvers, cutting Titans down in sequences practiced until the choreography seemed embedded in bone. The recruits who had watched from the wall now performed under the sky's unflinching scrutiny. Some faltered; a few slackened unexpectedly and were caught by quick hands. A couple of blades struck poorly and required emergency adjustments. Lock cursed under his breath once and then kept moving. Panic was a contagion; discipline was the antidote.
By the time midday settled into a furnace-bright glare, the initial ring of Titans at the wall had been cleared, but Shiganshina still scoped the horizon with a wilder scattering of Titans inside the district. Each corner cleared revealed another scene: half-consumed market stalls, collapsed roofs, and the occasional ruined militia post. The work was grim and mechanical, but it was work that kept the dead count from swelling beyond reason.
Lock's mind remained partly on the other game being played in the capital: the removal of men who supported entrenched power, Grisha's moves, and the political ripple they would cause. Today's success in Shiganshina would matter in that larger equation. Corps that proved reliable in battle gained public favor; public favor translated to influence; influence opened pathways to change. Lives were being wagered for the chance to alter a system grown rot-deep. Lock didn't delude himself about the cost. He measured it, counted it, and adjusted his hand accordingly.
When the sun began its slow descent, the last of the immediate objectives had been met. The recruits came down from the sky, faces smeared with sweat and grime, and their steps were heavier but steadier. They had seen Titans. They had killed them. Their hands trembled less.
Petra moved among them with practiced warmth—encouraging the shaken and praising the competent. Hange scribbled notes furiously, unbidden curiosity lighting her eyes even after the day's peril. Ymir lounged on a crate, expression unreadable but seemingly satisfied.
Lock, alone for a moment, allowed himself a glance skyward. The Walls rose like a promise—old, heavy, and imperfect. Beyond them, choices were being made: some quiet and deadly, some loud and angry. Today had been about survival; training turned to action. Tomorrow would be about consequence: political tides and the slow gear of change clicking into place.
He tightened his cloak and walked back toward the barracks, boots sounding steady on stone. The Corps was alive and breathing; more importantly, it had proven that it could still act where others faltered. The campaign to tilt power beneath the Walls had taken its first measurable step. For now, that would have to be enough.
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