Chapter 110: Grisha's Desperate Efforts
Wall Rose, Edge of Trost District.
The air was thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and cheap food, laced with a faint hint of blood. With the fall of Wall Maria, a flood of refugees had poured in, overwhelming the already strained resources of the inner Wall districts.
Grisha Jaeger pushed open the creaking wooden door and walked in wearily. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of an oil lamp on the table. Beneath the light, Carla was mending old clothes, her stitches small and neat. Mikasa sat beside her, quietly handing her thread. In the corner, Armin's grandfather leaned against the wall, resting with his eyes closed. Armin himself was hunched over a worn book, struggling to read by the dim lamplight.
Seeing this scene, Grisha's tense nerves relaxed slightly. Under this small roof, a sliver of order and warmth remained—a world away from the chaos of the refugee camps outside, where people fought brutally over half a piece of bread. But how long could this fragile peace last?
He remembered a few days ago, amidst the chaos and wailing of the refugee camp, desperately searching for his family. Finally, he saw Carla, clutching Eren and Mikasa tightly. They were covered in dust, but alive. The overwhelming joy of finding them safe had almost stolen his breath. They survived. They all survived. That knowledge had fueled his tireless efforts over the past days.
"You're back?" Carla looked up, worry etched on her face.
Grisha nodded, taking off his dust-covered coat. "Yes. The situation outside is still bad. Food is running low, and many people are complaining."
Carla sighed, putting down her sewing. "We're lucky to have something to eat… Grisha, we really owe you so much."
Grisha shook his head slightly. "I only did what I had to do." His gaze swept the room, not seeing Eren.
"Eren's out back, chopping wood," Carla said softly, her voice carrying an almost imperceptible weight. "That boy… he's been so quiet lately, always lost in thought."
Grisha's heart sank a little. He knew Eren wasn't acting normally. Since escaping Shiganshina, the boy had become quiet, almost like a different person. The look in his eyes sometimes—a look that didn't belong to someone his age—unnerved Grisha. Was it because he learned about all the deaths? Or… something else?
Grisha didn't dare dwell on it. He carried too many burdens already. The future memory fragments brought by the Attack Titan were chaotic and unclear. And he had recently learned some very bad news. To alleviate pressure, the central government was likely planning to sacrifice the refugees in an operation called the "Retaking of Wall Maria." Whispers among officials confirmed his fears. This wasn't about reclaiming territory; it was a large-scale culling disguised as a military campaign, meant to solve the food crisis. He absolutely could not let Carla and the others get caught up in it. Absolutely not.
Over the past few days, he had used every connection he had. As a doctor, he had some contacts within the Walls—merchants he had treated, low-ranking officials. He spent his savings, bartering medical knowledge and supplies for information, seeking protection. He had "casually" mentioned to a low-level official in charge of resource allocation that, based on his research into disease recurrence patterns, certain areas were at extremely high risk of large-scale epidemics in the coming months, suggesting it would be "wiser" to relocate "valuable personnel" to better-conditioned, more dispersed areas.
He proved to the registration officers that Carla was his indispensable assistant, that Armin's grandfather was "experienced" and equally essential, and that Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were just children. He even hinted at possessing "special" (outside the Walls) medical techniques that might be useful to certain important people, thereby increasing his family's "value." These hints had to suggest utility without inviting deeper scrutiny. If he attracted the attention of the government's truly "special" internal departments, the consequences would be dire.
The process was humiliating, each step requiring careful maneuvering. Every forced smile, every compliment paid to arrogant fools, every time he traded precious medicine for an uncertain promise—it all felt like needles pricking his pride. He even had to endure veiled discrimination and suspicion regarding his origins, all for the slim chance of protection. Every negotiation was like walking on thin ice. He couldn't reveal his true power or origin, lest he invite greater disaster. He could only play the part of an ordinary father and husband, using mundane means to protect everything he cherished.
Fortunately, for now, he had succeeded. He and his family, along with Armin and his grandfather, were classified as "useful," not "resource-draining consumables." But it was only temporary. Grisha knew it. Just that afternoon, he had seen a squad of Military Police brutally drag an elderly person from a nearby shack simply because they "didn't look healthy enough" to contribute further value. As long as the food crisis continued and the high command's mindset remained unchanged, the blade hanging over the refugees' heads could fall at any moment.
"Otou-san (Dad)." A voice interrupted him. Eren came in carrying a small bundle of firewood, his face expressionless. "Finished chopping."
"Mm, thank you for your hard work," Grisha said, looking at his son, wanting to say more but holding back.
Eren put down the wood and silently sat in the corner. He looked at his father's tired back, at the undisguised worry on his mother's and friends' faces, and clenched his fists. He knew this wasn't enough, far from enough—but right now, all he could do was gather his strength and remain silent.
Dinner was soon ready: black bread and a pot of watery vegetable soup. For them, in these times, it was a rare, filling meal. Armin's grandfather tremblingly picked up a piece of bread and looked at Grisha, his voice choked. "Dr. Jaeger… really, thank you so much… If it weren't for you, I'm afraid I—"
"Don't say that, old sir," Grisha cut him off. "It's only right that we help each other."
"Yes, we're all family now," Carla added, forcing a smile as she ladled soup for everyone, trying to lighten the mood. The atmosphere at the table remained heavy, the weight of the future pressing down on them all.
"Father," Eren suddenly spoke, his voice quiet but unusually clear, instantly drawing everyone's attention. He put down his spoon and looked up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present—his mother, father, grandfather, Armin, Mikasa—finally settling on his father. His eyes were sharp, filled with an unwavering determination.
"I want… to join the Cadet Corps!"
The air instantly froze. The room fell silent enough to hear a pin drop. Everyone stared at Eren in disbelief. Even Carla dropped the bread she was holding onto the table.
"Eren—" she stammered. "You… What are you saying?"