In the tavern where Keith first took Grisha, the two had a conversation like this:
"Ha... what do you think now, aren't people like us just a bunch of fools?"
"No, you are wiser and braver than anyone inside this Wall. You are living proof that no matter what circumstances you are born into, what you go through, or how you are oppressed, the human desire for freedom still exists."
"You are the pride of humanity!"
"The pride? Us?"
"That's right, selected individuals, special people..."
Selected.
Special.
That was the first time anyone had called Keith that amidst a thousand mocking criticisms.
Grisha's words ignited a flame within him, making him believe he truly was special.
Everything might have been fine if his "confidence" hadn't turned into "delusion." Keith scorned the officials and nobles whenever they spoke of casualties, always believing that if he were made Commander, he would certainly achieve results.
That conviction, the belief that he was a special person, was further reinforced as he repeatedly survived time and again, while his comrades came and went, being devoured alive by Titans.
And then, Keith finally awaited that moment. The eleventh Commander of the Survey Corps died in battle, and Keith, with the longest seniority and experience, became the twelfth Commander.
He thought this was his moment to shine, the moment for him to bring glory to the Survey Corps. He was a special individual, completely different from previous Commanders.
No.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
And then more failure. He couldn't even remember how many people died because of his decisions, couldn't remember how many elderly mothers and fathers cried before the remains, before the body parts left over by the Titans.
Keith realized he wasn't special at all. He was just a lucky survivor.
It was all his fault. Because of his selfishness and delusions, he pushed those people to their deaths. Yet his old life continued to live on. Over ten years of seniority in the Survey Corps—it sounded heroic, but how ironic.
However, Keith Shadis still had a certain stubbornness, a rigidity. To put it bluntly, he felt ashamed, but didn't want to endure humiliation.
When Erwin proposed a new formation that could minimize casualties to the lowest possible level, he flatly refused.
"No, use it when you become Commander."
Those words were meant to salvage a last bit of self-respect. The result was plain for all to see: disastrous.
Erwin applied that strategy to his own squad and suffered no casualties, while the Survey Corps under Keith's command still sustained more than 70% losses as usual. That result shattered the last remnants of Keith's pride, leading him to decide to retire and yield the position to Erwin.
He had recognized that Erwin was truly that kind of person. A special individual.
That was his life: an ordinary, lucky man who deluded himself into thinking he was extraordinary.
And Grisha, the man who had ignited that fire in him, the man who always claimed to be ordinary, was strangely extraordinary.
He was a brilliant doctor, using his medical knowledge to save all of Shiganshina District when a strange plague broke out. He ultimately won the heart of Carla, the woman he had secretly and unrequitedly loved for a very long time.
At Grisha and Carla's wedding, he turned his face away. Like a defeated man enduring his fate.
Special people did exist.
Erwin Smith, a born leader.
Grisha Yeager, an expert in medicine.
Asahi, monstrously strong.
Keith Shadis was not one of them.
The oil in the lamp burned down to its last drop and extinguished without them noticing. Asahi silently listened to Keith's every word.
Although he sought him out with the purpose of asking about Grisha, their meeting ultimately turned into a life story. Yet, he did not interrupt, nor did he feel annoyed.
In life, everyone has a hidden corner that is difficult to express. So whenever one can open up and speak, it is invaluable.
Keith's tragedy—the tragedy of an ordinary man being pushed to act like an extraordinary one—is truly difficult to judge as right or wrong. No, it must be said that there is no absolute right and absolute wrong here.
It's just that...
"Keith Shadis, is being extraordinary or ordinary really that important?"
She had once told him that to be a great person, one did not necessarily have to perform great deeds. Because ultimately, greatness is defined by individual standards.
To others, taking in a psychologically ill little girl might not be a big deal, but to that girl herself, his silhouette would forever be the greatest symbol.
Thinking this, Asahi's eyes reflected a gentle look.
And his question made Keith suddenly recall Carla's answer when he had angrily insulted her for just being a bar waitress pouring wine, back when she first brought Eren to meet him.
"Do you need to be special?"
"Do people need to acknowledge you at any cost?"
"I don't think so. At least... I hope this child doesn't either."
"He doesn't need to become any kind of great man. Why should he strive to become anyone else?"
"Look at him. Isn't he adorable just as he is?"
"He is already great. Because he was born into this world..."
Keith was choked with emotion, then shook his head and offered a wry smile. He had nothing more to say.
"Thank you for sharing everything."
Asahi retreated into the darkness, vanishing from the refugee area.
Hearing Keith's story, his mood slightly relaxed. He planned to head back to Shiganshina to see what secrets that basement held. He would finish it all tonight, then inform the Survey Corps afterward.
A single sleepless night was nothing more than eating and drinking to him.
Not long after Asahi left, Eren had a strange dream in one part of the refugee camp.
He vaguely realized he was in the middle of a desert with darkness covering the sky. No, it wasn't complete darkness; something was radiating.
It was very bright, stretching from the ground up to the ink-black sky.
This entire bizarre scene did not frighten the young Eren. Instead, he felt a certain connection.
Suddenly, a table made of sand floated up in front of Eren. On it was a piece of paper and a pen. The surrounding scenery also shifted; it was no longer an endless desert, but a locked room, seemingly a basement.
A hand reached out from behind Eren—a sturdy hand—guiding Eren's hand to hold the pen. It controlled his hand, like a teacher helping a student carefully trace their letters.
When the content on the paper was finished, Eren sank into sleep. The sand table collapsed and vanished, and the paper drifted into a less noticeable corner.
All of this was not a dream.