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Chapter 27 - XXVII

A Game Interrupted

In a mansion far removed from the blood and chaos of the battlefield, Dot Pyxis moved a chess piece. 

Wrongly. 

Again. 

Lord Wald scoffed. "We play every month, and you still haven't improved." 

Pyxis scratched his chin. "You must be cheating." 

Then— 

BANG! 

A soldier burst into the room. 

"Sir! The Colossal Titan has breached Trost!" 

Pyxis didn't hesitate. He grabbed Wald's wine bottle. "This will do for morale." 

Wald stood up, flustered. "You're supposed to protect me!" 

Pyxis paused at the door. "I am. But I'd rather be remembered for dying where it mattered." 

And with that, he left.

...

Back in Trost, Commander Fitz Woermann stood on a makeshift platform, shouting over the noise.

"Cadets! You'll be split into fireteam trios. Escort civilians, guard supply wagons, maintain retreat paths, and stay alive!"

The crowd broke apart into a chaotic blend of names and confusion.

Jean Kirstein pushed his way through the chaos, his jaw tense. He was supposed to be in the Interior by morning—no Titans, no screaming, just marble floors and slow mornings.

But now? Now he was trapped in a war zone.

He bumped into Eren. Perfect.

"Watch it, Yeager—" Jean snapped.

Eren grabbed his arm. "Jean."

His voice was steady. "We made it through training. We'll make it through this."

Jean blinked and then shook his arm free. "I'm not dying here."

With that, he turned and walked away.

"Mikasa." Eren turned as she approached.

She didn't speak immediately, just looked at him. "Find me if you're in trouble," she said.

Before Eren could respond, a Garrison soldier interrupted them. It was Ian Dietrich.

"You—Ackerman. Rear unit assignment. You'll be escorting refugees and maintaining formation integrity."

Mikasa's eyes narrowed. "I can fight. You know that—"

"Enough!" Eren snapped. "No one cares what you want!"

The silence that followed felt like a punch. He stared at her, his jaw clenched. "We're soldiers. People are going to die. I'm not the only one at risk."

Mikasa's voice was quiet but firm. "Then don't die."

They parted ways.

...

Somewhere, a memory returned.

It was a classroom in the Cadet Corps. A dusty book on Titan biology lay open. A stoic instructor read aloud:

"Titans regenerate wounds. They do not appear to eat for sustenance. Their method of reproduction is unknown."

Eren stared at the page, the words circling in his mind like insects.

They don't eat? Then why? What are they?

Someone raised a hand. "Are they invincible?"

The commandant didn't blink. "No. A strike to the nape of the neck severs all known nerve signals." He held up a blade. "Two swords. That's all it takes."

Back in the present, Eren stood beside Armin once again. They both waited. He could still hear the commandant's words. He could still see the page and feel the weight of what was coming.

Not far away, Kaelen leaned against a ruined pillar. His eyes scanned the walls, the towers, the rubble—but not directly ahead. He wasn't smiling. Not this time.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

Everyone was afraid. Out of all emotions, fear was the worst—not because of its intensity, but because it is more irrational and even louder than anger. Empathy could be overwhelming at times, but fear was different.

...

Smoke hung over the rooftops of Trost District, the wind dragging long fingers through clouds that were too low and heavy for comfort. From the walls above, the city looked deceptively peaceful, quiet, and orderly. But down below, the cadets were restless. Footsteps echoed against the stone. Orders were barked in short, clipped tones. The scent of oil and sweat mingled with the ever-present undercurrent of steel and dust.

Eren stood just behind a formation of recruits, his fingers tightening and loosening against the railing. He couldn't stop moving. Not completely. It felt like standing on the edge of something vast and terrible—and knowing it was about to come alive.

To his left, Armin was visibly shaking. The sleeves of his uniform flapped in the wind, and his breaths were shallow and inconsistent.

"They can kill us," Armin muttered. "At any time... without warning. They can just… kill us."

Eren turned to glance at him. His friend looked pale, more like a ghost than a soldier.

"But they haven't. Not yet." Eren's voice was low but grounded. "Which means we're still alive. And we still have a choice."

Armin didn't respond. He just clutched his gear as if it might float him away.

In the comfort of his estate, far from the Wall, Dot Pyxis moved his bishop one square to the left—right into a trap for the third game in a row.

Lord Wald sighed, swirling amber liquor in a glass that was far too heavy for his thin wrist. "You know," Wald said, "we've played this same match every month. And you still haven't improved."

Pyxis tilted his head, observing the board as if he weren't even playing it. "Maybe I just enjoy losing."

Wald scoffed. "No, you enjoy booze. And I pay for both."

A bang shattered the conversation.

A soldier burst into the room, panting. "Sir! Trost Gate—it's been breached! The Colossal Titan has appeared!"

The chessboard was forgotten in an instant.

Pyxis stood slowly, the calm in his eyes replaced by something harder. Without a word, he stepped forward, snagged Wald's half-full wine bottle from the table, and corked it with one hand.

"I'll be borrowing this," he said.

"Pyxis, wait—" Wald's voice cracked. "You're supposed to protect me! My estate—"

Pyxis halted in the doorway. "I have no interest in preserving a couch while humanity bleeds out."

And then he was gone.Smoke hung over the rooftops of Trost District, the wind dragging long fingers through clouds too low and heavy for comfort. From the walls above, the city looked deceptively peaceful, quiet, and even. But down below, the cadets were restless. Footsteps echoed on stone. Orders barked in short, clipped tones. The scent of oil and sweat mingled with the ever-present undercurrent of steel and dust.

Eren stood just behind a formation of recruits, his fingers tightening and loosening against the railing. He couldn't stop moving. Not completely. It was like standing on the edge of something vast and awful—and knowing it was about to come alive.

To his left, Armin was visibly shaking. The sleeves of his uniform flapped in the wind, his breaths shallow, inconsistent.

"They can kill us," Armin muttered. "At any time… without warning. They can just… kill us."

Eren turned to glance at him. His friend looked pale, more like a ghost than a soldier.

"But they haven't. Not yet." Eren's voice was low but grounded. "Which means we're still alive. And we still have a choice."

Armin didn't respond. He just clutched his gear like it might float him away.

In the comfort of his estate far from the Wall, Dot Pyxis moved his bishop one square to the left—right into a trap for the third game in a row.

Lord Wald sighed, swirling amber liquor in a glass far too heavy for his thin wrist.

"You know," Wald said, "we've played this same match every month. And you still haven't improved."

Pyxis tilted his head, observing the board like he wasn't even playing it. "Maybe I just enjoy losing."

Wald scoffed. "No, you enjoy booze. And I pay for both."

A bang shattered the conversation.

A soldier burst into the room, panting. "Sir! Trost Gate—it's been breached! The Colossal Titan has appeared!"

The chessboard was forgotten in an instant.

Pyxis stood slowly, the calm in his eyes replaced by something harder. Without a word, he stepped forward, snagged Wald's half-full wine bottle from the table, and corked it with one hand.

"I'll be borrowing this," he said.

"Pyxis, wait—" Wald's voice cracked. "You're supposed to protect me! My estate—"

Pyxis halted in the doorway.

"I have no interest in preserving a couch while humanity bleeds out."

And then he was gone.

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[Auther: Aren't I awesome? Anyways, it is back, I'm not dropping my lovely creations ever...though, I have gotten and started to dabble in other stories a bit.]

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