During their conversation, Lock and his team finally arrived at the designated recruitment point — a broad, elevated platform that had been constructed long ago.
Unlike the sparsely populated roads they'd passed earlier, this place was already packed. A dense crowd filled the open area, their voices merging into a low hum of curiosity and anticipation. As Lock and Petra approached, people instinctively stepped aside under the watchful direction of the Military Police responsible for maintaining order in the underground district. Yet their gazes never left Lock — sharp, curious, doubtful, even contemptuous.
Petra noticed the shift immediately. "Lock… these people…" she muttered, her expression tightening as the weight of hundreds of stares pressed down on her.
Some of the recruits couldn't handle it either. The raw, naked scrutiny from the crowd made their skin crawl.
Ymir, however, was utterly unbothered. Her gaze swept the crowd, locking eyes with anyone who dared stare too long. A few underground residents grew uncomfortable under her direct look and quickly turned away.
This was typical of the underground city. Down here, the more you showed weakness, the more others preyed on it. To survive meant meeting aggression with equal force.
Lock's voice cut through the tension, calm and sure. "I'm here. Nothing will happen."
With that, he stepped onto the high platform without hesitation. Petra and the others fell in line behind him, forming a tight unit.
Looking down at the thousands gathered below, Lock narrowed his eyes slightly. He had expected a few hundred at most — after all, the recruitment had been brutally honest: strict selection criteria, constant danger, and a high chance of dying in battle. And yet, this many had shown up.
It was proof of how miserable life was underground.
Standing tall at the head of his team, Lock's presence immediately drew the full attention of the crowd.
"That kid looks fifteen at most. Is the government joking, sending someone like him?"
"Ridiculous. You still expect something serious from the king's men?"
"Is this recruitment even real? We've never had a large-scale campaign down here before."
"Look at the armband — Survey Corps. And his insignia… he's got real rank."
"Too young for that. He must be some noble's second generation."
"Idiot. No noble sends their child to die in the Corps."
"True enough…"
The murmurs grew louder.
Lock flicked a glance at Oluo, standing nearby. Without needing further instruction, Oluo strode to the massive bronze bell beside the platform, hefted the hammer, and struck.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sound rolled through the underground cavern, deep and commanding. Conversations died instantly. Thousands of eyes turned to Lock.
Lock's expression was unreadable, almost detached — as though the crowd before him weren't people but a herd of pigs waiting to be sorted.
"I know why you're here," Lock began, his voice steady and carrying. "All of you have one purpose — to escape this filthy pit. I'm here to give you that chance. But you'd better have something worth my time."
His tone was calm, but the words cut through the air like a blade. A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd.
"Out there, there's sunlight. Clean streets. Real food. Freedom. Compared to this hole, the surface is paradise." His words took on a deliberate, tempting rhythm.
For a moment, faces softened. Even the most hardened underground residents couldn't help but yearn for a life beyond these damp tunnels. Someone in the crowd called out, "What do you want from us?"
Lock's answer was immediate and sharp: "Loyalty."
The word echoed through the cavern.
He swept his gaze across the crowd, his eyes cold. "Houses, pay, gear, training, power — I can give you all of it. But only to those who are loyal… and worth the investment."
At his signal, a few Military Police officers pulled back large tarps near the platform. Beneath them were ten small combat arenas, each about five square meters, arranged in a neat row.
"You see these?" Lock said, pointing to the arenas. "This is your test. I'm not here to recruit cowards. Those who think they're strong enough — step up. One-on-one fights. Win ten matches in a row, and you'll advance."
A wave of murmurs broke out. Someone shouted, "Ten fights? That's insane!"
Lock didn't reply. He stepped down from the platform, climbed into Arena No. 1, and raised his voice. "Of course, there's another way. If ten fights scare you, then come challenge me. If you can earn my recognition, you'll advance immediately."
"That's not fair!" another voice rang out.
Lock laughed — a short, cold sound. "Fair?"
He pointed at the crowd, his lips curling into a sneer. "What right do you have to speak to me about fairness? If you don't want to fight, leave. Don't waste my time with such stupidity."
Fairness.
There was no such thing — not in this world.
Some were born to wealth and privilege; others were born in the dirt. One person's starting point could be another's lifelong struggle. Fairness was a luxury for the strong. The weak didn't get to talk about it.
His words silenced the heckler. But pride burned hot underground. The man shoved his way through the crowd and jumped onto the arena, glaring at Lock.
Oluo and the others exchanged smirks. They'd seen this many times before.
The man lunged, his movement fast — but not fast enough.
Lock sidestepped cleanly, driving his elbow into the man's ribs. Air whooshed out of the man's lungs. Before he could recover, Lock hooked his leg, swept him off his feet, and planted him face-down on the hard stone with a sharp thud.
The crowd erupted into noise.
Lock didn't bother finishing him — the point was made.
"Next," Lock said coldly, stepping back.
The man staggered up, coughing blood, but didn't dare retaliate. He climbed down in silence, swallowed by the crowd.
The sight lit a spark in many. Underground life was brutal; fighting was second nature here. One bold fighter stepped onto the stage next. Then another.
The arenas came alive.
Fights broke out simultaneously — the sound of fists and feet colliding, shouts, and cheers filled the air. Lock watched from Arena No. 1, arms crossed, evaluating silently. He wasn't just looking for brute strength. He watched for instincts, reaction speed, mental resilience — the traits that turned survivors into soldiers.
Hours passed.
Some fought fiercely, others were crushed in their first bout. The ones who made it past five rounds began to draw attention. Among them was a wiry young man with scarred knuckles and feral eyes who won his fifth match with a precise chokehold. Another was a woman who fought with astonishing agility, dodging attacks like a dancer and countering with ruthless efficiency.
Lock's interest sharpened.
By the end of the day, only a handful had managed to reach ten consecutive victories. Each stood bloodied but unbowed, their chests heaving, eyes blazing with something primal.
Lock stepped forward. "Those who advanced — welcome. You've earned the first step out of this hole. But remember: this isn't a game. Outside, Titans roam. Cowards die first. Traitors die next. Only those who can keep moving forward survive."
His words carried the weight of truth.
The crowd, silent now, hung on every syllable. Some lowered their heads in fear; others clenched their fists in determination.
Lock raised his hand, signaling Oluo to ring the bell once more. The heavy sound reverberated through the cavern like a war drum.
This was no mere recruitment. It was the beginning of forging a new blade for humanity.
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