In the western war zone, traces of fierce battle stretched endlessly across the landscape. Severed limbs and scattered human remains lay at intervals along the path. The sight made Lock exhale softly, his expression grave.
"It's… truly tragic."
Without hesitation, he ordered his soldiers to collect the bodies and cremate them in one centralized location.
The winter chill had slowed decomposition, but once the temperature rose, these remains would quickly rot. Leaving them would be both disrespectful to the fallen and dangerously unsanitary—an invitation for disease to spread.
Out of respect for the dead, and to prevent plague, cremation was the only proper choice.
As they advanced, a heavy silence hung over the column. The soldiers hadn't fought in this part of the front, but even a passing glance at the surroundings was enough to imagine the desperate resistance of the Volunteer troops who had died here—how they must have fought until the very end, outnumbered and overrun by Titans.
That realization filled the troops with both grief and gratitude.
Had it not been for Lock's leadership, their fate might have been the same.
A single abnormal Titan was enough to rupture a defensive line. If a swarm of ten or more had gathered here, it would have been nothing short of a massacre.
After several short engagements along the way, Lock's unit finally reached the city of Kailuoluba, situated west of Wall Rose.
The men were exhausted after a relentless forced march, but Lock had no intention of letting the entire force enter the city. Comfort softened resolve, and he could not afford that now. The troops had maintained the spirit of soldiers prepared to die; their grim march through fields of death had only hardened that resolve. If they were allowed to relax inside the city walls now, that spirit would inevitably fade.
Yet supplies were absolutely necessary.
When the city gates swung open, dozens of wary, expectant eyes met them.
The citizens of Kailuoluba District—and the elderly, women, and children who had not been conscripted into the Volunteer forces—stood crowded at the gates. All eyes turned to Lock, who led the formation at the front.
Lock felt the weight of their gaze but showed no hesitation. He stepped forward, his voice strong and clear as he addressed them:
"Our expedition is nearing its end. Humanity… has prevailed!"
His eyes swept over the crowd. His posture was commanding, his tone resolute.
"We won. Humanity has won this war. Endure just a little longer—soon, we will return to our homes!"
For a moment, the city gate was silent, as if no one dared to believe it.
Then, like a dam breaking, voices rose in waves:
"Win… Win?!"
"Humanity has won! We defeated the Titans!"
"We can go home—finally, we can go home!"
"No more humiliation. I want to go back. I want to go home!"
"This is amazing. Humanity has reclaimed our land!"
"My son joined the Volunteers… I hope he comes back soon…"
Lock didn't linger to bask in their cheers. He turned and marched toward the military camp being set up outside the city. If his soldiers were forbidden from entering, he would lead by example.
Back in his tent, Lock exhaled quietly, a faint trace of frustration in his voice:
"Is it because the crowd was too small… or because my approach was wrong? Why hasn't my prestige increased?"
From the side came Ymir's dry mutter:
"You just love putting on a show."
"Enough, you two. Eat something." Petra interrupted with a smile.
Her gaze lingered on Lock, her admiration unconcealed.
Petra had joined the Survey Corps as a woman in a harsh, unforgiving world. Her respect was reserved for strength—and Lock embodied it.
Ymir noticed and curled her lip in mock annoyance.
The hours slipped by quickly. After resupplying and establishing their encampment at the city gate, the unit rested for half a day. Then Lock once again led them onward.
Since their arrival, the gates of Kailuoluba had remained open. Refugees and townspeople gathered daily to watch Lock's column—the soldiers who had achieved what once seemed impossible. Their eyes were filled with gratitude and awe.
Lock's reputation spread rapidly. His soldiers, full of pride, eagerly told his stories to anyone who would listen. There was no flattery in their voices, only genuine respect.
Lock was fully aware of it. As their commander, he saw no reason to stifle such honest admiration. Instead, he quietly ordered extra portions of food for the troops—a small gesture of acknowledgment. Some received a coveted extra chicken leg, to their great delight.
In the following days, the march proceeded without major obstacles. Along the way, they found and absorbed small scattered bands of surviving Volunteer soldiers who had managed to evade Titan patrols in the western theater.
The battlefield was vast; it was impossible for every inch of territory to be swept clean immediately. Pockets of survivors were inevitable.
Lock welcomed them with open arms.
As long as people lived, there was hope—and the strength of humanity grew with each rescued soldier.
"Has the captain reached Western Gate City?" Lock asked the messenger who rode in, caked with mud and frost.
"We arrived yesterday, sir. The city itself still holds a large number of Titans. The captain decided not to launch an assault immediately. He's established camp three kilometers out and plans to join forces with you before beginning the operation."
Lock nodded firmly.
"Good. Change horses and ride back. Tell the captain I'll arrive by noon tomorrow."
"Yes, Captain!"
The messenger saluted smartly, then—ignoring his own fatigue—mounted a fresh horse and galloped west.
Lock watched the rider's silhouette vanish into the distance. He drew a deep breath, murmuring to himself:
"Let's hope nothing unexpected happens."
He turned to return to his tent—but paused as Petra's gentle voice carried over:
"Christa, stay with me from now on. You were sent to the frontier to work at twelve and forced into the Volunteer army. That's practically a death sentence."
Ymir's voice, unusually soft, followed:
"Christa is still a child. She shouldn't be fighting anymore."
Lock frowned, looking toward the source of the voices. He saw Christa walking hand in hand with Petra and Ymir toward him, their expressions protective. The sight made his brow crease slightly in confusion.
"Christa…?"
He hadn't expected to see the young girl here, and the sudden shift in atmosphere pulled him momentarily out of his strategic mindset.
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