"Why are there so many of them coming back this time?"
"Could it be they never went far at all? Are they just pretending they went outside?"
"Yes! That must be it! No way they'd survive in such numbers otherwise!"
"Parasites! Eating and drinking our taxes for free!"
The voices of the crowd rose like knives.
Zeke listened, his jaw tightening.
What nonsense.
What blind, ignorant poison.
Did these people know what waited outside their walls?
Has any of them ever stood before a Titan, staring into its hollow, endless smile?
Did they understand what those men in uniform had just endured?
Zeke knew.
He had fought them before.
He had witnessed their ferocity with his own eyes.
The soldiers of Paradis were the most fearless warriors on earth.
You could mock the armies of Marley, or sneer at the cowardly soldiers of other nations. But the Survey Corps?
No one—no one—was less afraid of death than they.
And now those same soldiers, who spilled their blood in the mud beyond the walls, came home to this: contempt, suspicion, and ridicule.
Even Zeke, their sworn enemy, felt the sting of injustice. They are not worthy of such protectors.
Yet as anger churned, a different thought pierced him.
Anna…
"Zeke, what does Paradis look like? What are the people like there?" she had once asked him with shining eyes.
At the time, he had spun a tale:
That the Eldians of the island lived under clear blue skies, on fields of green untouched by smoke or industry.
That within the walls, people were kind, neighbors were harmonious, and everyone was brave.
A paradise.
A true homeland.
But that was a lie he had told himself.
He knew better.
His father had abandoned him for a "new family" here.
His brother Eren had sacrificed the world itself to protect these walls.
And this was what they fought for?
These petty, cruel, ungrateful people?
Anna… I was wrong.
Whether inside the walls or outside, the world was equally filthy. Equally cruel.
…
A flicker of green caught his eye.
Through the jeering crowd, two small boys, arms laden with firewood, stood on tiptoe to peer curiously at the returning soldiers. Their eyes were clear, innocent, untouched by bitterness.
Zeke's breath caught.
The haze in his chest broke apart in an instant.
"Eren!"
He couldn't stop himself. With uncharacteristic joy, he slung his gun over his back, vaulted from the carriage, and sprinted toward the boy.
"Captain!" the other three young Warriors gasped. They lurched as if to follow, but before they could jump, the carriage was halted by a frail voice.
"Moses… Moses?"
An old woman hobbled forward, her eyes searching, pleading. "Where is my son, Moses Brown? Has anyone seen my son?"
Reiner froze.
The name struck him like a blade.
He looked down at the bloody, severed arm wrapped in cloth resting across his knees.
Keith Shadis's voice cut the silence. "That is Moses' mother. Give it to her."
Reiner's throat tightened. Images of the soldier who had shielded him—who had thrown his life into death's maw so that others could live—flashed before his eyes. The arm grew heavier in his grasp until it felt like stone.
Wordlessly, he stepped down and extended it toward her.
Moses' mother accepted the bundle with trembling hands. She fumbled with the cloth, hoping, denying, praying.
But when she unfolded it, the truth leapt out: a mangled arm, still stained with blood.
Her cry tore through the square. She recoiled, clutching the shroud tight again, as though she could erase what she had seen.
Keith's voice was grim, hollow. "I'm sorry. This is all we could bring back. The rest… was devoured."
Her knees buckled. She wept into the arm that was all that remained of her son.
The crowd's jeers faltered. Some averted their eyes. Others crossed their arms, muttering:
"Pointless deaths."
"Nothing useful ever comes back."
"Always the same. Always worthless."
…
While grief consumed the square, Annie tugged at Reiner's sleeve. "Now. Let's go."
Bertolt was already moving, slipping into the crowd. Annie followed close.
Reiner hesitated, his eyes locked on the sobbing woman. For one aching second, he wanted to kneel beside her, to say that her son's death hadn't been in vain.
But he couldn't.
He had no right.
Clutching Moses' broken blade instead, he turned and vanished into the throng, chasing his comrades.
…
Moses' mother staggered forward, her voice breaking but still desperate, clinging to the last thread of hope.
"My son… my son is gone. But tell me—did he make a contribution? Did he help humanity's counterattack? Did his death… mean something?"
Everyone in earshot fell silent.
They knew the truth. The Survey Corps rarely returned with useful intelligence. Missions failed, soldiers died, and the world inside the walls went on unchanged.
Her plea deserved comfort—but the truth would crush her.
Keith looked at her long and hard. Then, with sudden fire in his eyes, he spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear:
"Yes! Your son made a great contribution!"
The crowd stirred.
Keith pointed toward the carriage that had borne the four mysterious children. His voice rose, firm and unyielding.
"He gave his life to protect humanity's hope!"
The people turned, following his hand.
But when they looked—
The carriage was empty.
The "hope" he had promised was gone.
…
This was the day the Survey Corps returned stronger than they ever had.
The day the people jeered even as a mother wept.
And the day "humanity's hope" quietly disappeared into the crowd.