Turning Point 3 (fufu... surprise, you thought I'd only upload that extra chapter?? HAHA this is a VERY long one, so take your time and read carefully)
"What's wrong with you, Historia?"
...
Father...
...
Her breathing falters.
Not from fear.
From something deeper.
Something that—
shouldn't be there.
...
And yet—
it is.
...
"I-I—"
Her voice trembles.
But not entirely from fear.
...
It's confusion.
Pure.
Raw.
...
Her hands slowly rise to her head.
As if trying to hold together something that's about to break.
...
Images.
Not clear.
Not complete.
...
Fragments.
—
A finger guiding hers across paper.
Letter by letter.
—
Black hair.
Warm eyes.
A smile.
Always that smile.
"..."
Her body stiffens.
...
"...W—why... did I forget until now...?"
The words come out broken.
Disordered.
...
"I wasn't alone... I..."
She shakes her head.
Once.
Twice.
...
"No..."
A whisper.
...
"...I had a sister."
...
—
Why?
—
Why?
—
Why?
—
Why?
—
They just keep hitting.
Over and over again.
...
"Why...?" her voice cracks. "Why did I forget that person...?"
Her fingers clutch at her own clothes.
...
"She..."
She swallows.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.
...
"She used to read me stories..."
...
"She treated me gently... with... with kindness..."
...
...
"...She taught me how to write."
...
Her eyes widen slightly.
As if she just understood—
...
This wasn't just any memory.
It was—
her childhood.
...
And it's gone.
...
It was erased.
...
"...Father..."
Her voice no longer trembles.
It's... empty.
...
"Who... was she...?"
...
The man in front of her doesn't answer immediately.
He watches her.
In silence.
...
Then—
he steps closer.
Unhurried.
Certain.
...
His arms wrap around her.
Firmly.
Carefully.
...
He pulls her in.
As if she's fragile.
As if she is—
his daughter.
...
Historia doesn't resist.
She can't.
Her body reacts before her mind.
She lets herself be held.
...
Small.
—
Too small.
...
...this...
...
This is a father I can feel more comfortable with.
A more real one.
Closer to what I understand.
To what defines people.
...
Connections.
—
Paths.
—
Goals.
—
That is what defines them.
...
...
"The person you knew..."
His voice echoes close.
Too close.
...
And then—
...
—something breaks.
...
The sound comes first.
—
Water.
—
No.
—
Something thicker.
...
An irregular dripping.
Heavy.
...
...gurgling.
...
A smell.
Metallic.
Dense.
...
...
"Uh...?"
The world tilts.
Slightly.
...
Blonde—
is no longer just blonde.
...
It mixes.
It stains.
It fractures.
...
Red.
...
Too much red.
...
—------------------------------------------
All Ackermans experience a moment where their power awakens.
It isn't gradual.
It isn't training.
It isn't talent.
It's... a breaking point.
—
An instant where something inside them aligns.
Or shatters.
—
I've observed enough patterns to reduce it to basic conditions.
Extreme threat.
An emotional stimulus intense enough to force an irreversible response.
And—
an external subject.
—
There is always someone.
—
It's not coincidence.
It's not chance.
It's... a requirement.
—
The narrative presents it as "loyalty."
As "protective instinct."
As something almost noble.
...
But that's a simplification.
—
What actually happens is closer to fixation.
—
Slavery.
—
—
Slavery.
...
A word often loaded with moral weight.
Rejection.
Condemnation.
...
But stripped of that—
it's simply a state.
—
Absolute dependence on an external axis.
—
Imposed direction.
—
Derived meaning.
...
The Ackermans are no exception.
—
They're... an optimized version.
—
A more honest one.
...
They don't hide it.
They don't rationalize it.
They don't disguise it as choice.
...
They respond.
—
They protect.
—
They obey.
...
Without contradiction.
...
...
The difference with the rest—
is only aesthetic.
...
Because everyone—
...
is a slave to something.
...
Desires.
—
Fear.
—
Affection.
—
Pride.
—
The need for validation.
...
It doesn't matter the form.
—
There's always an anchor.
...
Something that defines direction.
...
Something that gives meaning.
...
...
Even me—
...
should be one.
...
The simplest answer would be—
the White Room.
—
My origin.
—
My design.
...
Conditioning from the foundation.
—
Isolation.
—
Optimization.
...
An environment built to eliminate noise.
—
And leave only function.
...
It would be logical to assume that defines me.
...
That I am a product of it.
—
That I am bound to it.
—
That I belong to it.
...
...
But—
...
that too is a simplification.
...
Because slavery implies something essential.
...
Dependence.
...
And I—
...
don't feel it.
...
Not toward the White Room.
—
Not toward anyone.
—
Not toward anything.
...
There is no rejection.
No attachment.
...
Only—
absence.
...
...
Which presents a problem.
...
If everyone needs an axis—
...
what happens when there is none?
...
There is no direction.
No purpose.
No drive.
...
Only movement.
...
Function without meaning.
...
...
Even the Ackermans—
bound to their "loyalty"—
possess something I do not.
...
A fixed point.
—
A "someone."
...
Something that justifies their existence.
...
Something to act for.
...
...
I don't have that.
...
And it's not that I lost it.
—
It was never there.
...
...
So then—
what am I?
...
An incomplete version?
...
Or... a liberated one?
...
...
If this is freedom—
...
it's a curious form of it.
...
Empty.
—
Directionless.
—
Weightless.
...
...
Most people would fear having nothing to hold onto.
...
I—
...
have nothing to let go of.
...
...
And even so—
...
it doesn't feel like an advantage.
...
...
Because even being a slave—
...
means belonging to something.
...
...
And that—
...
is something I can't even share with the rest of humanity.
...
...
Because then the question isn't when they awaken—
—
but for whom.
—
And that...
changes everything.
...
I've seen the result.
—
Absurd strength.
Speed that defies logic.
Instincts that surpass conscious thought.
—
But also—
restriction.
—
Direction.
—
Imposed purpose.
...
A perfect weapon.
As long as someone else is holding the trigger.
...
...
So then—
what happens if there is no one?
...
Silence.
...
Can an awakening be forced without that "anchor"?
—
Can it be replaced?
—
Simulated?
...
Or simply—
does it not happen?
...
...
I don't have an answer.
—
And that is... unusual.
...
I've never experienced that "moment."
—
No breaking point.
—
No emotional surge.
—
Nothing that could be described as a turning point.
...
If that is the requirement—
then it makes sense.
—
No stimulus.
—
No response.
...
But that opens another possibility.
...
Maybe—
it's not that I haven't awakened.
—
Maybe—
there is nothing to awaken.
...
...
Or maybe—
...
it simply hasn't happened yet.
...
And if it does—
...
what would trigger it?
...
A threat?
Not enough.
—
Pain?
Irrelevant.
—
Fear?
Inconsistent.
...
Then—
only one variable remains.
...
Someone.
...
...
Would I be capable of creating that condition artificially?
—
Selecting a target.
—
Assigning value.
—
Forcing a response.
...
Yes.
Probably.
At the exact moment the liquid finishes falling—
the gurgling continues in the man's throat.
A wet sound.
Irregular.
—
His lungs fill.
Not with air.
—
With blood.
...
Not even a second passes.
—
Two gunshots.
—
Straight at my head.
...
I don't think.
It isn't necessary.
—
Rod's body is already in my hands.
—
I turn.
—
I tear him away from Historia's frozen arms—
She moves desperately, trying to pull her father back.
Blood runs down her hair,
staining the whites of her eyes.
Her breathing—erratic.
—
And I place him in front of me.
—
Gunshot.
—
Gunshot.
—
Impact.
—
The body jerks.
—
Flesh pierced.
—
Blood.
...
...
There is no silence.
There is fury.
"...Ah."
—
An exhale.
Low.
Broken.
—
But heavy.
—
Kenny Ackerman.
—
I see him.
—
He's not smiling.
—
He's not mocking.
—
There's no trace of his usual lightness.
—
Only—
hatred.
Pure.
Directed.
At me.
"...YOU—!!!"
His voice comes out deep.
Tense.
"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING, YOU TRAITOR!!!"
...
"What are you talking about...? Which part of this is my fault? I've fulfilled everything I was asked to do until now."
The body is no longer useful.
I let go.
It falls without resistance—heavy, inert. When it hits the ground, the sound is wet, dense... final.
Historia flinches, her eyes locked onto her father's face, dim but still alive, as her hand desperately tries to reach his pocket.
The air changes.
It isn't something you hear first—
it's something you feel.
A sudden pressure.
Then—the sound.
Sharp.
Cutting.
Gas.
A compressed explosion that shatters the silence and distorts the space for an instant.
And then—
he disappears.
No.
He doesn't disappear.
He moves.
Too fast.
My eyes don't lose him, but my body reacts before I process it.
Above.
Left.
I tilt my head on instinct.
The shot grazes past.
The heat of the bullet cuts through the air beside my skin. It doesn't touch me—but it's close enough to feel.
The second shot comes without pause.
I don't try to dodge it with raw speed.
I move.
One step to the side.
Another.
I don't retreat.
I reduce the angle.
I reduce the distance.
His mistake.
He's equipped to control mid-range space.
I'm not.
The sound shifts again.
Lower.
More mechanical.
The hook fires.
The cable slams into the wall with a dry, tense impact. It stretches, vibrates, locks.
And then—
he drops.
Not like a man.
Like a projectile.
Straight toward me.
I raise the knife.
Not to defend.
To read.
To mark his trajectory.
He fires as he descends.
Two shots.
One high.
One center.
I tilt slightly.
The first misses by centimeters.
The second grazes.
Immediate pain.
Superficial.
Irrelevant.
He's close.
Too close.
I move forward.
I don't retreat.
I enter his space before he can readjust.
The knife rises in a horizontal motion—straight for his neck.
He sees it.
Late.
But enough.
He twists his body.
The blade cuts flesh—
not enough.
Blood appears, but the cut is clean, shallow.
Not decisive.
He counters.
A direct kick.
It hits my abdomen.
The impact is solid.
I take half a step back.
Nothing more.
My balance holds.
I watch him.
He smiles.
No.
Not a smile.
It's acceptance.
Of the situation.
Of me.
Of this fight.
"That's it..." he murmurs.
There's no mockery left in his voice.
"...you really don't care about your life... monster..."
The gas erupts again.
More violently.
This time, there's no restraint.
Kenny ascends as if the air itself is throwing him upward.
Higher.
Faster.
He's no longer testing.
He's hunting.
The cables pierce into both sides with surgical precision. The tension vibrates through the air before his body even follows the trajectory.
He propels himself.
Changes angle mid-air—not chaotically, but deliberately.
Every movement demands a response.
Every variation seeks an error.
He fires.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I can't avoid all of them.
No one could.
I minimize.
Twist my torso.
Shift my weight.
One grazes my shoulder.
Another tears through fabric.
The third—
hits.
Thigh.
It pierces.
The pain is immediate. Sharp. Precise.
My mobility drops a level.
Not much.
But enough.
I notice it.
So does he.
He descends.
Slower now.
Controlled.
Certain.
He's reading my limitation.
And accepting it as an advantage.
Mistake.
The hook changes direction at the last instant.
It doesn't come straight down.
It curves.
Lateral.
Blind.
I don't make it.
Impact.
His boot connects with my side.
The air leaves my lungs in a dull удар.
My body shifts before I can stabilize.
Second impact.
Not with his leg.
With the grip of his weapon.
Straight to my face.
My vision fractures.
For a moment.
Partial darkness.
A shot.
Not to kill.
To control.
The projectile pierces through my shoulder.
Forced recoil.
Kenny lands.
Light.
Fluid.
Perfect.
"...you're falling behind."
His voice is low.
But there's no playfulness left in it.
Only certainty.
I spit blood.
I don't respond.
Not verbally.
He moves again.
Closer.
More aggressive.
He fires.
Misses.
—
No.
—
Adjusts.
Impact.
His knee slams into my abdomen.
This time deeper.
Cleaner.
My body gives.
One step back.
Two.
He's on top of me.
"Know what the difference is?"
His voice comes between breaths.
Close.
Too close.
Another hit.
A fist.
Straight to my face.
"...I actually have something."
Silence.
"Something to protect."
A shot.
Almost point-blank.
I turn.
The bullet passes through where my head was.
Interesting.
So that's his axis.
Not power.
Not violence.
Historia.
I confirm it in his eyes.
Every time he moves—
he protects her.
Even now.
Even against me.
Then—
the equation simplifies.
I move forward.
Despite the damage.
Despite the pain.
I provoke him.
Leave an opening.
Exaggerated.
Obvious.
He takes it.
Without hesitation.
He lunges.
Straight.
And then—
I move.
Not toward him.
Backward.
Toward—
Historia.
I grab her.
Not violently—
she struggles as I press the knife to her neck.
How important is the royal family to him?
I pull her closer.
Place her between us.
The world stops.
Kenny too.
Not completely.
But enough.
His eyes change.
For the first time since the fight began—
hesitation.
"...let her go."
There's no rage in his voice.
"You know I can't do that."
I reply.
Flat.
"You know what the right choice is if you want her to live. It's the last one you have left, Kenny."
"The last Reiss you can protect. Don't you owe that to someone?"
A heartbeat.
"K-kiyotaka... why...? why...?"
Her voice is hollow.
Those large blue eyes, now filled with blood, stare at me.
"You killed my father..."
"Why...?"
Just one moment.
But it's enough.
The gun trembles.
Barely.
But it does.
That's all I need.
I move.
I throw Historia toward him.
His grip loosens—just slightly.
I advance.
Straight at him.
Too late.
His decision has already been made.
He doesn't fire.
He can't.
The knife enters, cutting along his side—
the gas system—
and part of his hip.
Clean cut.
Pressure breaks.
Leak.
A violent burst—
partial explosion.
He desperately tries to avoid harming Historia, shifting away—
Total imbalance.
Kenny falls.
Badly.
His knee hits first.
His body doesn't respond the way it should.
Blood pours from his side.
I'm on top of him before he can recover.
The knife comes down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Tendons.
Joints.
Movement—
eliminated.
A scream.
Not his.
Historia's.
He just watches.
Resigned.
His expression filled with hatred.
He doesn't scream in pain.
He screams in rage.
His fingers search for his weapon on instinct, dragging weakly across the blood-stained wood.
Too slow.
I kick it away.
The metal slides across the floor with a dry sound, spinning before stopping far out of reach... completely disconnected from his gear.
Silence.
Only his breathing remains.
Heavy.
Irregular.
Forced.
Kenny Ackerman lies on the ground.
Motionless.
Disarmed.
But not defeated.
Not completely.
His eyes are still alive.
Fixed on me.
"...heh..."
He laughs.
Blood pooling between his teeth.
"...so that's what it was..."
...
"...you're not strong..."
He spits.
Red against the wood.
"...you're just the biggest bastard in the world..."
...
I exhale.
Slowly.
Without answering.
It's not worth it.
The bleeding doesn't stop in my body either.
I notice it.
But I don't register it as a problem.
Blood runs down my face, slips along my jaw, drips to the floor.
I ignore it.
I simply walk.
Toward Rod.
Or what remains of him.
But before I reach him—
—her.
Historia.
She moves.
Fast.
Desperate.
She throws herself over her father's body as if she could shield him from the world.
As if her own body could be enough.
She hugs him—
No.
She clings to him.
"...no... no, no, no..."
Her voice breaks before it can fully form.
Her hands tremble as she tries to hold onto something that can no longer be held.
She presses the wound.
Too hard.
Useless.
Blood slips through her fingers.
Warm.
Unstoppable.
"Father...?"
She shakes him.
Barely.
As if she's afraid of breaking him further.
"...father...?"
Lower now.
Weaker.
No response.
Her lips tremble.
Her breathing fractures.
And then—
—she breaks.
"NO—"
The sound isn't loud.
It's... torn.
It comes out wrong.
As if her body doesn't know how to scream.
"NO, NO, NO, NO...!"
Her hands stain further.
They slip.
Try again.
Press.
Fail.
"SOMEONE—!"
Her voice rises.
Desperate.
Broken.
"PLEASE—!"
She turns.
Not toward me.
Not directly.
Toward no one.
Toward everyone.
Toward something that isn't there.
"SAVE HIM...!"
Silence.
There's no one.
"PLEASE...!"
Her voice collapses.
Breaks in the air.
"...my father..."
She swallows.
Fails.
"...my father is going to die..."
And in that moment—
—she sees me.
Her eyes lock onto mine.
There is no doubt.
Only pleading.
"...please..."
A whisper.
"...help him..."
...
"Move."
I try to make it sound gentle.
It doesn't.
She shakes her head.
Immediately.
Violently.
Instinctively.
"NO!"
She clings tighter.
As if I'm the one trying to kill him.
"LEAVE US ALONE!"
Her voice falls apart with every word.
"SOMEONE—!"
She tries to breathe.
Can't.
"PLEASE... SAVE HIM...!"
Her hands tremble more.
Still clinging to the body.
"SAVE HIM...!"
Silence.
"...please..."
She doesn't move.
She can't.
...
I take her.
Not roughly—
But without care.
I pull her away.
Her body offers almost no real resistance.
Not because she doesn't want to—
But because she can't.
"—NO...!"
Her fingers try to cling.
Slip.
Fail.
I move her aside as if she weighs nothing.
As if she is nothing.
She falls to her knees.
The sound is dry.
Hollow.
I don't look at her.
There's no need.
I crouch.
In front of Rod.
The body still warm.
Useless—
But still useful.
My hands move.
Precise.
Without hesitation.
I search.
Inner pockets.
Seams.
Fabric stiffness.
Irregular shapes.
I find it.
A box.
Small.
Hidden.
Protected.
I take it out.
Open it.
Inside—
—the syringe.
Transparent.
I fill it with the liquid beside it.
...
Behind me—
—silence.
No more screams.
No more pleas.
Only breathing.
Broken.
Empty.
And something else.
A gaze.
I don't need to see it to know.
But still—
I feel it.
Buried in my back.
Hatred.
Not the same as before.
Not fleeting.
Deeper.
Quieter.
Final.
...
I close the box.
The click is soft.
But in the silence of the room—
it echoes louder than it should.
"Monster..."
The word comes from behind me.
Weak.
But clear.
I don't stop.
Slow.
Steady.
The same path as before—
but now without urgency.
Kenny.
I stop in front of him.
His body no longer responds.
Legs useless.
Arms heavy.
But his eyes—
They aren't dead.
Staring at the ceiling.
Fixed.
As if he's no longer here.
As if he's somewhere else.
Memories.
Or maybe—nothing.
I suppose that's what people do when they're dying.
Remember.
Cling.
Or surrender.
I crouch down to his level.
For a moment—
I simply watch him.
His breathing is irregular.
Heavy.
Each exhale costs more than the last.
Even so—
when he speaks—
he doesn't tremble.
"What is it... brat...?"
His voice is rough.
Dragged.
But beneath it—
lucidity.
"...came to say goodbye...?"
Silence.
I consider it.
"No."
I answer.
Flat.
Empty.
"I just want to test something."
His eyes move.
Barely.
But enough to focus on me.
And then—
he smiles.
Not fully—
but he tries.
"...ha..."
A small exhale.
"...figures..."
His gaze drops for a second toward my hand.
The box.
The syringe.
And he understands.
No questions.
No protest.
No resistance.
"...so even at the end... you're still the same..."
Silence.
"...you don't care about anything... do you...?"
I don't respond.
There's no need.
I take the syringe out.
The liquid inside remains steady.
Transparent.
Cold.
I place it against his neck.
His skin is warm.
Damp.
Weak.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't try to avoid it.
He just looks at me.
"...tell me something..."
he murmurs.
Lower now.
Slower.
"...when all of this is over..."
Pause.
"...will you find something...?"
Silence.
I don't answer.
I push slightly.
The liquid enters.
Only a few drops are enough—
I keep the rest.
No resistance.
Straight into the bloodstream.
One...
Two...
Three...
Nothing.
No change.
No reaction.
No transformation.
Only—
breathing.
Each one weaker than the last.
So that's how it is.
The Ackermans can't turn into Titans.
I exhale.
A faint sigh.
Almost disappointed.
"...ha..."
Kenny laughs.
Weak—
but genuine.
"...so even that didn't work, huh...?"
He coughs.
Blood.
More.
"...we're... a special case..."
His eyes are no longer fully focused—
but they're still there.
Resisting.
"...we don't belong anywhere..."
Silence.
"...not to them..."
"Nor to the rest..."
His breathing cuts.
My hands wrap around his neck.
I press.
Firmly.
Almost effortlessly.
My gaze never leaves his.
One second.
Two.
And then—
—he's gone.
Silence.
I stay there a moment longer.
Watching.
Not out of respect.
Not out of curiosity.
Just—confirmation.
No more movement.
No more response.
Kenny Ackerman—
is dead.
...
...
...
..
...
....
...
...
...
...
...
.....
..
I stand up.
Without haste.
Without looking back.
She's still there.
Where I left her.
Historia.
On her knees.
Covered in blood.
Not all of it is hers.
But it no longer matters to distinguish it.
Her hands are still trembling, still clinging to nothing—
as if her body hasn't understood yet that there's nothing left to hold.
I don't approach immediately.
I observe her.
Her breathing is irregular.
Short.
Shallow.
Her eyes...
aren't focused.
Not entirely.
Too much... for someone who just saw everything.
I take a step.
She reacts.
Her body tightens.
Instinct.
Fear.
Rejection.
But she doesn't run.
She can't.
Another step.
Now she looks at me.
And there it is.
Hatred.
Not like before.
Not a fleeting impulse.
This is different.
Deeper.
More stable.
More... human.
"..."
She says nothing.
She doesn't need to.
I stop in front of her.
The difference in height becomes obvious.
Her below.
Me above.
One second.
Two.
Enough.
"I promised Ymir I would protect you."
My voice is neutral.
Almost soft.
But not warm.
Her eyes tremble.
She doesn't understand.
She doesn't want to understand.
"...that's what I did."
Silence.
"...protect me...?"
Her voice comes out broken.
Unstable.
As if each word has to force its way into existence.
She looks around.
At Rod.
At Kenny.
At the blood.
At me.
"...this is... protecting me...?"
There's no sarcasm.
No irony.
Just... inability.
Her mind tries to piece it together.
And fails.
"Yes."
I answer without hesitation.
"All the factors that posed a threat to you..."
A brief pause.
Precise.
"...have been eliminated."
Her breathing falters.
"No..."
She shakes her head.
Slow.
Weak.
"No, that's not..."
She doesn't finish the sentence.
She can't.
Because she has no way to.
"Your father..."
I continue without raising my voice.
Without pressure.
"...was using you."
Silence.
She doesn't react immediately.
Her mind tries to reject it before even processing it.
"He planned to turn you into a Titan.
Make you eat Eren...
and reclaim the Founding power."
I take another step closer.
She doesn't move back.
"Your fate..."
A brief pause.
"...was never yours."
Her eyes tremble.
More than before.
"He was going to take everything from you.
Your will.
Your identity."
I watch her.
I don't look away.
"Turn you into just another replacement.
Another king within the walls...
as it has been for generations."
Her breathing destabilizes.
This isn't rejection.
It's collapse.
"Now it is."
Silence.
"Now your future belongs to you."
I don't emphasize it.
I don't sell it as hope.
I just state it.
"You can choose.
You can decide what to do...
and for whom."
"..."
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
No words.
Not yet.
"I protected you."
I repeat it.
Lower.
More firm.
"I did it for you."
There it is.
Resistance.
A thread—barely there, but enough to hold onto.
"...you killed them..."
Barely a whisper.
I don't raise my voice.
"No."
Pause.
"I eliminated them."
I don't soften it.
I don't justify it.
I just say it.
Her fingers tense against the ground, digging in as if she needs something physical to anchor herself.
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
And then—
—she breaks.
But not like before.
No screaming.
No loss of control.
This is deeper.
"...I..."
She swallows.
Fails.
"...I have no one..."
Ah.
There it is.
The breaking point.
The crack.
I crouch in front of her.
At her level.
For the first time, our gazes align.
"No."
I deny it softly.
"...that's not correct."
Silence.
Her pupils contract.
She searches.
For meaning.
For direction.
For something to hold onto.
"I'm still here."
I don't explain.
I don't elaborate.
I leave the sentence there.
Hanging between us.
And I wait.
Because at this point...
she has nowhere else to go.
She has nowhere else to go.
Her breathing breaks again.
But it's not the same as before.
Not pure desperation.
It's... emptiness.
"I'm here for you..."
My voice lowers slightly.
Softer.
Closer.
"...I always will be, because..."
"I love you, Historia."
...
Her head snaps up.
Too fast.
As if the words pierced through her.
Her eyes—
widen.
scatter.
don't align with what she just heard.
"...what...?"
It barely comes out.
Broken.
Disbelieving.
I don't answer immediately.
I watch her.
Her mind tries to process it.
Compare it.
Reject it.
—
Accept it.
—
All at the same time.
Her lips tremble.
More than before.
Much more.
"That doesn't..."
She shakes her head.
But there's no strength in it.
Only confusion.
"That doesn't make sense..."
Correct.
That's why it works.
I move closer.
One step.
Then another.
She doesn't retreat.
She can't.
My hands rise.
Slowly.
Without abruptness.
I take her by the shoulders.
Her body tenses.
An instant.
Instinct.
Then—
she gives in.
I pull her closer.
...
...and I embrace her.
...
There's no excessive force.
No exaggerated tenderness.
Only firmness.
Presence.
Enough to hold her together.
Her body stays rigid at first.
As if she doesn't know how to react.
One second.
Two.
And then—
—she breaks.
The first sound is low.
Almost nonexistent.
An attempt to hold it in.
It fails.
Her hands clutch my clothes.
Tight.
Desperate.
"...no..."
Her voice shatters against my chest.
"...no..."
And then—
—she cries.
Without control.
Without rhythm.
Without form.
Everything that didn't come out before—
comes out now.
Her body trembles.
Shakes.
Clings tighter.
As if I were—
—the only thing left.
Her tears soak through the fabric.
Warm.
Relentless.
...
...
...
...
How many times have I done this?
...
Probably too many.
...
I feel like I'm forgetting something...
...
Ah.
Eren.
From this angle, his gaze meets mine.
His body is still unmoving.
Forced.
Broken.
But his eyes are alive.
Too alive.
Before, they were already on the edge.
Desperation.
Confusion.
The greatest revelation of his life collapsing in front of him.
But this... is different.
Now he sees me.
Directly.
And he understands.
Not completely.
Not in words.
But enough.
Enough to know that I am the most dangerous thing in this room.
...
Sorry, Eren.
I suppose that was an unpleasant sight.
But this isn't new.
Not for me.
People are surprisingly simple when they break.
First, they resist.
They deny.
They cling to what they know.
Then they fail.
And when they do—
they search.
Desperately.
For something.
An explanation.
A reason.
An anchor.
It doesn't matter what.
Just... something that lets them keep existing.
Historia found it in me.
Not because I'm special.
Not because I deserve it.
But because I'm the only thing left.
That's all it takes.
Presence.
Timing.
Prior emptiness.
And then... dependency.
Eren sees it.
He feels it.
He rejects it.
Good.
That reaction is correct.
Natural.
Human.
But it doesn't change anything.
Because in the end, everyone works the same way.
Someone to fight for.
Something to protect.
An idea that sustains them.
Or... a person.
The Ackermans call it "awakening."
Absolute loyalty.
Instinct.
Protection.
...
What a convenient word.
But at its core, it isn't that different.
Just a more refined version of the same thing.
Slavery.
Eren doesn't understand it yet.
But he will.
Eventually.
Everyone does.
Even me.
...
No.
Correction.
Not me.
...
Because to be a slave, you first need something to belong to.
And that's the one thing I never had.
Silence.
The storm outside continues.
Distant.
Irrelevant.
Historia keeps crying against me.
Clinging.
Shaking.
Eren keeps watching.
Unable to move.
Unable to intervene.
And I...
I'm simply here.
Observing.
As always.
—-----------------------------------------------------
"It's okay, Suzune..."
My voice comes out lower than usual.
Softer.
This isn't a calculated decision.
Not an optimized response.
It's... unstable.
For the first time—doubt.
I notice it immediately.
My breathing isn't steady.
My pulse... isn't either.
It beats.
Faster than normal.
Stronger.
Annoying.
Present.
...warm.
The sensation spreads from my chest, as if something that had always been sealed... had opened slightly.
And I don't know how to stop it.
Or if I even want to.
Her arms are still around my back.
Firm.
Real.
There's no intention behind them.
No strategy.
Just... contact.
And that—
is enough to alter everything.
"...I'm not going to leave the class."
The words come out on their own.
Unfiltered.
Uncorrected.
"...I..."
Pause.
Not for dramatic effect.
Because I can't find the right way to continue.
Because there is no right way.
"...I want to see you grow."
Silence.
Mine.
The world's.
Something on my face moves.
Slightly.
The corner of my lips lifts... imperfectly.
It's not a trained smile.
Not functional.
It's awkward.
Strange.
Mine.
"...Give me that quiet life you're promising me..."
The words fall between us.
Simple.
Too simple.
But for the first time, they aren't constructed to obtain something.
They don't seek to manipulate.
They don't seek to guide.
They just... exist.
And in that instant—
I understand.
This is what people call desire.
Not optimizing.
Not analyzing.
Not choosing the best option.
Just...
wanting.
...
It's uncomfortable.
Unstable.
Irrational.
But—
it's not unpleasant.
...
For a moment—
a brief one—
a real one—
there is no White Room.
No objectives.
No expectations.
Only this instant.
And someone in front of me.
...
It's enough.
...
And then—
—it cuts.
No transition.
No warning.
No logic.
The warmth disappears.
The contact—
gone as well.
The sensation in my chest—
fades.
As if it had never existed.
...
Darkness.
...
No dreams.
No memories.
No images.
No voice.
Nothing.
...
Absolute emptiness.
...
And then—
—consciousness.
Not gradual.
Not blurred.
Instant.
Brutal.
Consciousness is a strange phenomenon. For most, it emerges slowly: blurred shapes, distant sounds, fragments without meaning that, over time, organize into something coherent.
For me—
no.
One instant of nothing.
And the next—everything.
Cold air bursts into my lungs like a blade.
It doesn't enter: it invades.
My body reacts before my mind.
A spasm.
A clumsy attempt to breathe.
Hands.
Clumsy.
Not mine.
They push me.
They tear me out of a confined space—warm... stable.
The contrast is violent.
Cold.
Light.
Noise.
All at once.
...
There is no confusion.
No panic.
Only—registration.
...
And yet—
for a fraction of a second—
something doesn't fit.
...
A residual sensation.
...
Warmth.
...
Something in my chest—
—Why...?
Why now...?
—------------------------------------------------------------
End of the Royal Family arc FUFU, hope you liked it.
Ufff, a whole year of free work for this—I love you all... I really hope the result lived up to expectations (if there were any).
I love you guys.
You have no idea how happy it makes me to see those who've been following since chapter 1—I could cry from how much it means.
It feels like I've lifted a huge weight off my shoulders finishing this arc.
Kiyokasu loves you all.
Now—return to Shiganshina!!!!