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  Seriously, what the hell am I doing?...

  Hannes had his hands shakingly placed at the trigger of the rifle. The rifle shot was a pathetic, cracking sound against the symphony of chaos as it passed through Zs’Skayr’s intangible skull with a faint phfft of displaced air. The attack was like a spitball against a hurricane, but it was enough. The Ectonurite Lord’s triumphant advance halted. His single, luminous eye, fixed on his prey, slowly swiveled away from Eren. The ancient, star-eating malice that had been focused on the boy now shifted, zeroing in on the source of the interruption.

  Yet Hannes stood his ground, the smoking rifle trembling in his hands as his heart continuously hammered a frantic drum solo against his ribs. He saw the abomination turn, and the weight of that gaze felt like ice water poured down his spine. It definitely looked pissed off.

  Eren’s Opticoid body; a grotesque tableau of glowing eyes and a missing right arm; staggered to his feet, the red Titan markings etched across his yellow flesh pulsing faintly. His seventeen eyes swiveled, locking onto Hannes.

  “HANNES?!” Eren roared, his garbled voice a mix of shock and panic. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  Hannes felt his knees shaking beneath the weight of carrying an unconscious Jochen strapped to his back. The younger soldier’s face was pale, his uniform bloodied, but his chest rose and fell (That would be explained momentarily) “Saving your sorry ass, kid!” Hannes shouted back, his voice cracking with fear and bravado. “Now move!”

  “A flea,” Zs’Skayr’s voice finally rasped out, a sound like a grave opening. “A buzzing, insolent little flea.” He raised a clawed hand, telekinetic energy; a visible distortion of dark blue light; crackling around his needle-like fingers. The massive chunk of rubble from the shattered shack began to tremble and turn towards its new target. “I shall enjoy swatting you.”

  Time seemed to slow. Hannes once again saw his death hovering in the air, ready to be hurled at him. He was frozen, a mouse in the gaze of a serpent.

  At once Eren reacted on instinct. His Opticoid form, though battered, was fast. He launched forward becoming a blur of yellow and black in the process, while the rubble hurtled toward Hannes like a deadly missile. Eren slammed into the Garisson soldier, his single remaining arm wrapping around Hannes’s torso with surprising strength; knocking him and Jochen to the ground sideways just as the slab crashed where they’d stood, splintering into dust and stone sharpel.

  “Hannes, you idiot!” Eren yelled, his eyes swiveling to check for injuries. Hannes coughed, spitting dirt, Jochen’s weight pinning him. Hannes’s eyes then went wide, first taking in the monstrous form, then locking onto the horrifyingly smooth stump where Eren’s right arm should have been.

  “Kid… your arm… what in the name of the Walls happened to your arm?!”

  “Doesn’t matter!” Eren snapped, shoving Hannes forward, the Titan marks glowing faintly against his alien skin. “We have to move!” He glanced back at the group; Mikasa, Armin, Carla in her wheelchair, Grandpa Arlet clutching his wounded side; still cornered by thralls near the shack’s ruins. “You guys, go! NOW!”

  But Zs’Skayr’s grating laugh interrupted, a sound like grinding stones. “No escape for any of you,” he rasped, his eye glowing with sadistic glee. A psychic command, silent and absolute, echoed through his thralls. The violet-eyed horrors that had been momentarily stunned by Hannes’s interruption now surged as one, swarming the route the others had taken, cutting off Eren and Hannes. They moved with a new, terrifying purpose, their jaws snapping and claws reaching.

  “They’re boxing us in!” Hannes shouted, fumbling for his ODM blades, knowing they were practically useless. Eren’s eyes swiveled, taking in the swarm.

  “Damn it!” Eren’s numerous eyes darted around, calculating, panicking. They were surrounded. He saw the broken, sparking remains of the Sun Gun lying nearby where it had been smashed against the wall. A grimace of despair twisted his alien features. Their best hope was in shambles.

  Then, a crazy, desperate idea flashed in his mind.

  “Hannes this might be stupid, but I need you to hang on!” Eren yelled.

  “Hang on to wha—WOAH!” Hannes yelped as Eren’s single arm scooped him up like a sack of potatoes, slinging him over his shoulder with inhuman strength; Jochen still strapped onto Hannes’ back.

  “Brace yourself!”

  Eren didn’t run around the swarm. He ran through it.

  He became a battering ram of sheer willpower, lowering his head and plowing into the wall of thralls. Claws scraped against his skin, teeth snapped at his legs, but he powered through, Hannes yelling in a mix of terror and awe as thralls were sent stumbling aside.

  But the horde was too thick. They’d never make it. Eren’s eyes scanned for an exit, a higher path, and found one. Reiner’s corrupted, armored thrall form was shambling forward, its violet eyes fixed on them, a moving mountain of malice.

  Without a second thought, Eren charged straight for it. He put on a final burst of speed, leaped onto its broad, armored knee, used a spiked pauldron as a stepping stone, and then, with a powerful thrust of his legs, launched himself upward.

  His clawed foot planted squarely on the thing’s face, right between its glowing eyes, using the monstrous Titan-thrall as a springboard. The creature roared in confused fury, swiping at the air as Eren, with Hannes still slung over his shoulder, soared over the heads of the lesser thralls, landing in a stumbling run on the other side of the blockade, catching up to the retreating group.

  As he ran, a strange, deep cold; a power he hadn’t known he possessed; stirred within his body’s core. It was a latent ability, a part of this form’s DNA, unlocked by sheer desperation and the need to protect. He didn’t fully understand it, but he willed it forth. A thrall lunged at his flank, and three of the smaller eyes on his side swiveled together to form a bigger eye and glowed not with heat, but with a pale, blue-white light. A thin beam of concentrated cryogenic energy shot out, flash-freezing the thrall’s leg solid in a block of ice. The creature toppled over, its limb shattering on impact. Eren didn’t even break stride, the new power a faint, cold thrum in his veins.

  Did he-Did he just did that…

  Before Eren could process the ability he had just displayed, he stooped mid-stride while his clawed foot snagged what caught his interest; the broken Sun Gun. He clutched the shattered device, grimacing at the sparking wires and cracked lens. “This better not be useless,” he muttered, his heart sinking.

  Steam hissed faintly from his right arm stump, unnoticed in the chaos, as the Attack Titan’s healing slowly knitted new flesh, too focused on survival at the moment.

  Behind them, Zs’Skayr let out a roar of pure, unadulterated frustration that seemed to make the very air vibrate. He dissolved into a cloud of smoke and shot after them, his speed terrifying as he streaked after Eren and Hannes.

  “Eren!” Armin cried out as they caught up, his eyes wide with relief and fear. Eren reached the group, panting, his Opticoid form trembling from exertion. He thrust the broken Sun Gun into Grandpa Arlet’s hands. “Can you fix this?” he buzzed, desperation in his voice. “It’s our only shot!”

  Grandpa Arlet, still clutching his bleeding side, examined the weapon, his face grim. “The power core is intact, but the emitter array is busted… maybe I can rig something.”

  However time was barely on their side as Zs’Skayr was gaining on them faster than anticipated.

  “No time, we need to move!” Hannes yelled, hefting the unconscious form of Jochen higher on his back.

  Eren snarled, spinning around. Multiple eyes on his face and chest glowed a fierce green. “Keep going! I’ll hold him!”

  He unleashed a volley of thermal beams, forcing Zs’Skayr to weave and phase, slowing his advance. The Ectonurite swatted the blasts aside with telekinetic shields, his rage growing with each passing second.

  “You cannot run forever, child!” Zs’Skayr thundered as his claws glowed with malevolent energy that tore up the ground mere feet behind him, his looming presence a cold shadow that sucked the warmth from the air.

  “I don’t have to!” Eren yelled back. He took a deep breath, a strange sensation in this form. He closed all but the large central eye on his chest. It glowed brighter and brighter, gathering energy until it was a miniature sun burning in his torso. With a final, guttural cry, he unleashed it; a massive, continuous beam of pure thermal force that slammed into Zs’Skayr like a physical fist, easily breaking through the massive uprooted earth he had used to shield himself.

  The Ectonurite Lord was thrown backward, skidding across the earth while smoke rose from his scorched chest. He shrieked in pain and fury but was undeterred from his purpose.

  “Foolish child,” he spat as his ectoplasmic body was reforming itself. Eren stumbled back slightly, feeling exhaustion etching closer by the second, was there no end to this thing?!

  It was then that Grandpa Arlet made his decision. He stopped running. He shoved the broken Sun Gun into Armin’s hands.

  “Grandpa?!” Armin cried, confusion and dread on his face.

  “Listen to me,” the old man said, his voice low and urgent, yet impossibly calm. His eyes were fixed on the recovering Zs’Skayr. “This ends now. I can buy you the time you need.”

  “No!” Eren protested, turning from his enemy. “We’re not leaving you!”

  “You will,” Grandpa Arlet retorted back, his voice brooking no argument.

  “Mr Arlet please, this is foolishness on your part!” Carla cried, gripping her wheelchair. “You’re hurt!”

  Armin, clutching the broken Sun Gun, shook his head as he stumbled to the front of his defiant grandfather, a desperate act of stopping him. “Grandpa, you’ll die!”

  He looked at Eren, at the missing arm, at the determined set of his alien features. He looked at Hannes, carrying his friend. At Mikasa, protecting his mother. At Armin, clutching the broken tool of their salvation. The old man’s face hardened slightly, the Wrecker within him rising.

  “I’ve faced worse than this ghost,” he growled. “Go, now! That’s an order!” With a strength that belied his injury, he turned and began walking toward Zs’Skayr, pulling a small, cylindrical device from his belt; a backup, something kept for absolute last stands.

  Eren hesitated, his eyes swiveling between Grandpa Arlet and Zs’Skayr. This isn’t right, he has to do something. The old man is charging to his death, literally! However Hannes, still carrying Jochen, grabbed Eren’s arm. “He’s right, kid. We move, or we’re all dead!”

  With heavy reluctance, they decided to do as the veteran wished, making their way away from the threat. Zs’Skayr got to his feet (Tail???), his eye burning with promised vengeance. He saw the old man approaching alone.

  “A noble sacrifice? How quaint.” He hissed with cold mockery.

  “A distraction,” Grandpa Arlet corrected, a grim smile on his face as he thumbed the device. It began to hum with a low, powerful energy. “Let’s see how you handle a localized energy surge, you overgrown ghost.”

  A dome of shimmering, golden energy erupted from the device, enveloping both Grandpa Arlet and Zs’Skayr. It wasn’t sunlight, but it was intense, chaotic energy that disrupted the Ectonurite’s phasing ability, trapping them both inside.

  The group stared, horrified, from outside the dome. They could see Zs’Skayr snarling, lashing out at the old man who stood unflinching, buying them precious seconds with his life.

  Eren wanted to scream, to fight, to break the dome. But Mikasa’s hand was on his carapace. “Eren…”

  With a final, agonized look at the brave old man facing down a nightmare, Eren turned. His heart, in whatever form it took, felt like it was shattering. But he ran, leading the shattered remnants of his family and friends away from the light and into the uncertain darkness.

  “GRANDPA!” Armin screamed from the distance, tears streaming down his face as he nearly ran back to go after his last family relative hadn’t Eren grabbed hold of his best friend and carried him away.

  “I’m so sorry Armin.” Was all Eren could say as they ran.

  Enraged shrieks of Zs’Skayr echoing behind them, contained for now, but not for long. The cost of their escape had just become unbearably high.

  _______________

  The shimmering energy dome hummed, a prison of light and sound. Inside, the air crackled with pent-up violence. Zs’Skayr floated, his form rippling with annoyance at the containment, his single eye fixed on the frail old man who dared to trap him.

  “Your sacrifice is meaningless, human,” Zs’Skayr rasped, his claws flexing. “I will break this toy and then I will break them, piece by piece, in front of you.”

  Grandpa Arlet stood hunched, one hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his side. His breathing was labored, his face pale. He looked every bit the defeated, dying old man.

  “You sure about that…Zs’Skayr?”

  The smirk on Zs’Skayr’s face faltered slightly. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t mentioned his name to these pestilent humans aside from Eren. The brat must have definitely told his precious people…but why does it sound like this senile earthling before him knows him…

  Grandpa Arlet let his hand fall away from his injured side he was clutching. The change on his face was instantaneous and horrifying. The pained grimace melted from his face, replaced by a look of cold, ancient weariness. The slight tremor in his limbs stilled into the absolute steadiness of a predator. He slowly straightened his spine, the act seeming to add decades of muscle and power back to his frame. The effort was visible, a great strain, but he did it nonetheless.

  And his eyes… they flashed. Not with the mindless violet of a thrall, but with a sharp, intelligent, familiar amethyst light. The technology in his hands, the small cylindrical device, reconfigured itself with a series of sharp, metallic clicks. It unfolded, flowed, and expanded, wrapping around his arms and hands until they were encased in thick, formidable gauntlets. Alien markings, long dormant, glowed with a soft blue light along the forearms.

  A wry, tired smirk touched the old man’s lips. It was the expression of a soldier who’d hoped his war was over, but was grimly prepared to fight it one last time.

  “Now,” he said, his voice no longer gravelly with age, but sharp and clear, layered with a power that made the very air vibrate. “Where were we?”

  Zs’Skayr recoiled as if physically struck. His ectoplasmic form wavered, not from injury, but from sheer, incalculable shock. The arrogance, the malice, the cosmic disdain, it all evaporated, replaced by a primal, recognized fear.

  He knew that smirk. He knew those eyes.

  An angered and desperate male creature burning with purple energy of an Anodite and clad in the wreckers’ uniform glared venomously at a downed Zs’Skayr.

  “This ends now.”

  Zs’Skayr’s eyes narrowed.

  “You…”

  “Yeah, long time no see ecto-lord.”

  ________________

  The world was a blur of panicked motion and distant, fading screams. Eren’s Opticoid form, fueled by pure adrenaline and desperation, ate up the ground, carrying them deep into the labyrinthine outskirts of the refugee camp. The chaotic symphony of Zs’Skayr’s rage grew fainter, replaced by the ragged sound of their own breathing.

  But one sound was constant, a frantic drumbeat against Eren’s chest.

  “Let me go! Eren, let me GO!” Armin’s voice was raw, tears streaming down his face as he pounded his fists against the unyielding skin of Eren’s torso. “We have to go back! We can’t leave him! He’s my GRANDFATHER!”

  One of his wild swings connected squarely with one of the smaller eyes on Eren’s shoulder (Ouch T_T). Eren flinched, a pained hiss escaping him as he instinctively squeezed that eye shut. “Armin, stop it! He did that so we could live!”

  “I DON’T CARE!” Armin screamed, his composure utterly shattered. “He doesn’t get to make that choice! Not like that! We could have fought! YOU could have fought!”

  It was then that the Omnitrix chose its moment. The familiar, critical BEEP-BEEP-BEEP cut through their struggle. A red flash engulfed Eren, and his powerful, multi-limbed form dissolved, leaving a ten-year-old boy and his best friend tumbling gracelessly to the hard-packed earth in a tangle of limbs.

  They skidded to a halt, dust coating their clothes. Armin scrambled to his feet instantly, his body trembling with a mixture of grief and fury. He made to run back the way they came.

  Eren was faster. He launched himself forward, his own body screaming in protest from its accumulated injuries, and wrapped his arms around Armin’s waist, dragging him down. “Armin, no! You can’t!”

  “GET OFF ME!” Armin shrieked, elbowing, kicking, fighting with a strength Eren didn’t know he possessed. It was a raw, animalistic struggle. “He’s all I have left! You have your mom! You have Mikasa! What do I have if he’s gone?!”

  “You have me!” Eren yelled back, his voice cracking as he struggled to contain his friend with his one good arm. “You’ve always had me! He told us to go! He knew what he was doing!”

  “HE WAS HIDING THINGS FROM ME!” The accusation tore from Armin’s throat, a truth he’d been choking on for the past few hours.

  “All of it! That book! The Omnitrix! He knew about that… that thing and he never said a word! And it was on YOUR wrist, Eren! It came out of YOUR device! This is all happening because of that stupid thing on your arm!”

  He was sobbing now, his struggles weakening into helpless spasms of anger and despair. “We should have… you should have tried harder to control it… I should have figured it out sooner… I’m just… I’m nothing in a fight. I’m useless. I’m always just… nothing.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy and toxic. Eren felt them like a physical blow. He saw the same thought flash in Armin’s wide, terrified eyes; the horrifying, unspoken end to that sentence: ‘…and my grandfather is dying for nothing.’ Armin choked on it, his face crumpling with the shame of nearly saying it aloud.

  The fight went out of him. He went limp in Eren’s grasp, his body wracked with silent, heaving sobs. Eren’s own anger deflated, replaced by a cold, hard lump of guilt and shared grief. He didn’t let go, just held his friend tighter as they knelt in the dirt, two boys crushed under the weight of a horror they were never meant to bear.

  Hannes, setting the unconscious Jochen down gently against a broken fencepost, watched them with a grim, weary expression. He’d seen men break under less. Mikasa stood guard, her knife still out, her eyes constantly scanning the shadows, but her posture was stiff with the shared pain. Carla’s hand was over her mouth, her own tears falling for the old man and for the boys breaking down before her.

  It was Hannes who broke the silence, his voice rough but calm. “Alright. That’s enough.” He walked over and put a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “You’re both right, and you’re both wrong. He chose his path. Your job now is to make sure it wasn’t for nothing. We need a plan, or we’re all just waiting to die.”

  His words, blunt and soldierly, cut through the despair. Sniffling, Armin slowly pushed himself up. Eren released him, also standing. They couldn’t look at each other.

  “He’s right,” Armin whispered, wiping his face with a filthy sleeve. His voice was hollow. “A plan. We need a plan.”

  Their retreat took them to the very edge of the camp, where the shacks gave way to the larger, more permanent structures of Trost refugee’s agricultural belt. They found refuge in a large, dilapidated barn that smelled of old hay and dust. The relative silence was unnerving.

  It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows of an empty horse stall, making them all jump.

  Annie Leonhardt leaned heavily against the wooden frame, her right arm clutched awkwardly against her chest, clearly broken. Her face was pale, smudged with dirt and blood, but her ice-blue eyes were alert, burning with a cold fury. Her gaze immediately locked onto Eren.

  “You…!” she hissed, the word dripping with venom.

  Before anyone could react, she pushed off the wall and crossed the distance in a limping rush. Her good hand shot out, not with a weapon, but with terrifying speed and precision, grabbing Eren by the throat and slamming him against the barn wall.

  “This is all your fault!” she snarled, her face inches from his. The pain and rage of the night—Reiner, Bertholdt, the horror of those abominations that had once been people—boiled over, directed entirely at him.

  “That thing! That device! What did you do?!”

  Eren gagged, clawing at her iron grip. “I didn’t—!”

  “Annie, stop!” Armin cried out.

  Hannes moved forward, but it was Mikasa who was fastest. In a flash, her knife was at Annie’s throat. “Let him go. Now.” Her voice was deathly quiet.

  Annie’s eyes flicked to Mikasa, then back to Eren, her grip tightening. And that’s when she saw them. In the dim moonlight filtering through the barn boards, the angry, red lines etched across Eren’s face and the side of his neck were unmistakable.

  …Titan…marks?

  Her fury stuttered, replaced by a shock so profound it momentarily loosened her grip. Her eyes widened a fraction.

  ‘He’s a… Shifter? But… how?!’

  Questions, so MANY questions screamed in her mind. How, why, when, what…Could he be…the co-ordinate, or the lost titan??? But her training took over. This wasn’t the time to spiral; she couldn’t blow her cover. She buried the revelation, her face a mask of cold stone once more, but the confusion lingered behind her eyes.

  Nothing…Nothing was making any sense at the moment.

  “Everyone, just STOP!” Carla’s voice, usually so gentle, cut through the tension like a whip. She wheeled herself between them, her face fierce. “Fighting amongst ourselves is what it wants! We are not the enemy!”

  Annie slowly, reluctantly, released Eren. He slumped against the wall, gasping for air, rubbing his throat.

  “Maam…” Annie said, her voice low and dangerous, turning her accusatory glare to Carla. “Do you have any idea what this boy is? What he’s brought here?”

  Carla met her gaze without flinching. “I know that this boy; my son; is a child who was given a power he doesn’t understand. I know that a monster has chosen to use that as an excuse to torment us. That is all I need to know.”

  The answer was so simple, so maternal, and so utterly devoid of the fear or suspicion Annie expected that it left her momentarily speechless. This woman…was his mother. How is she so calm about the kind of thing her son is?

  Annie just stared, her carefully constructed worldview of Eldian devils and justified warriors cracking at the edges, even as she believed all were the same.

  It was Hannes who played peacemaker, stepping forward with his hands up. “Look, blonde kid, we’re all on the same side right now. That’s ‘not getting killed by ghost monsters’.” He gestured to Eren’s right arm. “See? Even the kid’s paying the price.”

  They all looked. The stump of Eren’s arm was… knitting itself back together. Tendons, muscle, and bone were visibly regenerating at an impossible rate, weaving itself back into existence from the elbow down. It was a grotesque, fascinating, and deeply unsettling sight.

  Eren flexed the newly formed fingers, his own face a mask of confusion. Another feature of the gadget?

  “It’s… the device. It must be.” he muttered, latching onto the only explanation he had. He couldn’t process the alternative, the one that Annie now secretly knew.

  The group fell into an uneasy silence, the only sound being the faint, wet sounds of Eren’s healing flesh and the ragged breathing of the unconscious Garrison soldier Hannes had carried with him. The man’s head lolled, his face pale and smeared with soot, a dark bruise blooming on his temple aside from the wound around his side.

  Mikasa’s eyes, ever watchful, narrowed. “Who is he?” she asked, her voice low. Her knife was still in her hand, a silent promise of violence if this stranger proved a threat (Girl he’s unconscious for the love of God).

  Hannes sank onto an overturned crate, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He ran a hand over his face, smearing dirt and sweat. “His name’s Jochen. One of mine.” He gestured vaguely toward the chaos outside. “We were on gate duty when… all this started.”

  Armin, who had been staring blankly at the broken Sun Gun in his hands, looked up, his curiosity momentarily overriding his grief.

  “How did you find us?” The blonde boy asked curiously, his eyes also trailed on the young garrison. “And… what happened to him?”

  A dark, haunted look passed over Hannes’s face. He stared at Jochen’s prone form, the memory playing out behind his eyes.

  “It’s…complicated…”

  Earlier…

  The world was a nightmare of jerking violet eyes and snarling mouths. Hannes, his ODM gear empty and useless, moved like a ghost himself, following the possessed form of Jochen through the chaotic streets. His friend’s body moved with a predator’s grace that was utterly alien (I mean it is actually Alien, sooo…).

  He thought he was being stealthy, using the rubble and shadows for cover. He was wrong.

  …Terribly wrong.

  Jochen’s head snapped around, his neck craning at an impossible angle. The violet light in his eyes fixed on Hannes’s hiding spot with unnerving accuracy. A guttural snarl ripped from Jochen’s throat; a sound that belonged in a slaughterhouse, not a man.

  Hannes’s cover was blown.

  Jochen lunged. Hannes brought his rifle up, the bayonet pointed at his friend’s chest, but…he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t drive steel into the heart of the man he’d shared a drink with just hours before!

  “Jochen! Snap out of it, damn you!” Hannes yelled as he backpedaled.

  The thrall didn’t even flinch. It lunged again, and Hannes was forced to swing the rifle like a club, the stock connected with its shoulder with a sickening crack. Jochen’s body staggered but didn’t fall, its expression one of vacant fury. It grabbed the barrel of the rifle, its strength inhuman, and wrenched it from Hannes’s grasp before flinging it into the darkness.

  Hannes scrambled away, desperation turning his blood to ice. He tripped over a stack of crates, sending them clattering. A nearby torch, knocked from its bracket, tumbled to the ground, its flame licking hungrily at the dry fabric of a discarded tent.

  The thrall-Jochen advanced, unconcerned by the growing fire. Hannes’s back hit a wall. Nowhere to run.

  The fire…

  A crazy idea, born of pure survival instinct, seized him. As the thrall lunged again, Hannes didn’t try to dodge. Instead, he dove toward the fallen torch, rolling through the dirt and coming up with a burning length of tent pole in his hand, the canvas aflame at its tip.

  He thrusted it like a spear.

  The possessed thrall recoiled violently, a piercing screech tearing from its throat. The violet light in its eyes flickered. It wasn’t a killing blow, but the fire… the fire hurt it. It was afraid.

  Emboldened, Hannes pressed the attack, swinging the makeshift torch. He wasn’t trying to kill it; he was trying to herd it. He drove the creature back, toward the spreading flames of the tent. It stumbled, its foot catching on a guy line, and fell backward into the heart of the fire.

  What happened next would be seared into Hannes’s memory forever.

  Jochen’s body convulsed. The thrall’s control shattered under the wave of searing pain. Its form seemed to… blur. A wisp of solid shadow, a thing of nightmares, vomited itself out of Jochen’s mouth in a wave of black smoke, repelled by the flames consuming its host. The Mp thrall hit the ground, screeching as its form wavered, its intangibility failing as the fire weakened it. It was smaller now, vulnerable.

  Jochen himself collapsed, silent and still amidst the flames.

  Hannes didn’t hesitate. This thing, this parasite, was the real enemy. Letting out a raw cry of rage and grief, he lunged forward and brought his boot down on the shrieking MP thrall with all his strength. Once. Twice. There was a wet, horrific crunching pop, like stepping on a giant insect. The violet light in its eyes snuffed out. What emitted from the dead mp thrall was a foul-smelling, greasy black sludge that seeped into the dirt.

  The fight was over. The only sound was the crackle of the burning tent.

  Panting, his hands shaking, Hannes rushed into the flames. He grabbed Jochen by the arms, ignoring the heat that blistered his own skin, and dragged the younger man clear of the fire. He was alive, unconscious, his uniform smoldering, but he was breathing. He was Jochen again.

  With trembling fingers, Hannes used a torn strip of his own jacket to strap the unconscious soldier to his back. He had to find the others. He had to warn them. And he had to get this kid to safety.

  “…And that’s about it. I guess.” Hannes said as he finished his story, his voice a hollow shell. He looked at his feet as if still seeing the black sludge clinging to his boot. The silence in the barn was absolute. Nobody actually daring to say a word.

  “Fire,” Hannes whispered, the word heavy with new meaning. “It didn’t just hurt the ghost officer. It… it forced that thing right out of him. It made it solid. It made it so I could…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

  Armin was no longer looking at the broken Sun Gun. He was staring at Hannes, his blue eyes wide, the gears in his mind turning at a terrifying speed. The grief was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was now surrounded by the sharp, crystalline edges of a brutal, terrifying calculation.

  ‘Fire huh…’

  His eyes drifted from Hannes’s traumatized face to the rusty scythe leaning against the wall. To the old, dry hay bales. To the cracked oil lamp. Finally, his gaze landed on Eren, and the device on his wrist.

  The plan that had been a vague notion in his head suddenly crystallized into something far more specific, far more dangerous, and far more cruel. He didn’t say it yet. He let the horrific implication hang in the air, a specter of what he was about to propose. The silence stretched, thick with dread and anticipation.

  Finally, his voice quiet but clear, the strategist pushing through the horror, Armin spoke.

  “We need to use his glaring weakness. The light.”

  _______________

  The shimmering energy dome hummed, a prison of light and sound, its golden glow casting jagged shadows across the ruined refugee camp. Inside, the air crackled with pent-up violence, ozone thick with the scent of impending doom.

  Grandpa Arlet moved with a speed that defied his age, his gauntlets; etched with glowing alien runes; hummed with power. They weren’t for punching; they were emitters, relics of his Wrecker past. With sharp, precise gestures, he unleashed lashing whips of concussive force, not light, that tore through the air like sonic blades. Each whip struck Zs’Skayr’s ectoplasmic form, sending painful ripples through his intangible body, like stones disturbing still water. The Ectonurite screeched as his single eye blazed with fury.

  “Your tricks have grown stale, human!” Zs’Skayr snarled, phasing and weaving through the onslaught. He retaliated with volleys of telekinetically hurled debris; shattered wood, stone, and twisted metal; lashing tendrils of shadow coiling behind them like vipers.

  “Still enough for you, ghost!” Arlet grunted, deflecting a chunk of rock with a shimmering kinetic shield that erupted from his gauntlet. He closed the distance, amethyst glow burning in his eyes, a soldier reborn from a war beyond the stars. For a glorious, terrifying moment, he was the Wrecker of old. He lunged, landing a solid blow; a concussive blast that slammed squarely into Zs’Skayr’s chest, sending the Ectonurite skidding back with a piercing screech of pain, smoke rising from his scorched form.

  The dome trembled while Arlet’s gauntlets pulsed with violet energy. He pressed the attack, whips cracking, each hit disrupting Zs’Skayr’s cohesion. “I beat you once,” he growled, memories of distant battles flashing in his mind…

  A younger Wrecker facing an incoming army of Ectonurites along with his team.

  “I’ll do it again.”

  But the glow in his eyes flickered. A sheen of sweat coated his brow, his breathing a ragged, painful rasp. His power; a hybrid spark…was crushing him. His arms trembled, the gauntlets’ runes dimming as his body faltered under the strain.

  Zs’Skayr rose, his ectoplasmic form knitting itself back together while his sneer widened with cruel triumph. He saw it; the flicker, the weakness.

  “You’re tired, old man,” he hissed as he glided forward, claws glowing with telekinetic malice. “That spark… a pathetic echo. A borrowed trinket. You were never one of them, were you? Just a mortal thief playing with power he could never master.”

  Arlet’s jaw clenched, defiance burning despite the pain. He raised his gauntlets for one last attack, but they sputtered, the violet light dying, reverting to cold, dead metal. He collapsed to one knee, gasping, blood pooling beneath him.

  “You’ll… never… have him.” The old man choked out, clutching the cylindrical device that powered the dome.

  “The humans have made you soft. WEAK,” Zs’Skayr sneered, looming over him. “A fitting end… for a relic.” With a contemptuous flick of his tail, he unleashed a telekinetic surge, slamming Arlet into the ground. The old man’s body crumpled, broken and still, the dome flickering out in a final, dying pulse of golden light.

  Zs’Skayr didn’t bother finishing him; the old fool was no threat. His burning violet eye turned toward the area, where Eren had fled. “The boy is mine,” he rasped, dissolving into a cloud of smoke.

  His psychic command echoed through his thralls. “To the city! Feast on their fear! The rest, bring me the Omnitrix!” Half the horde; violet-eyed horrors with snapping jaws; surged toward Trost’s citizen sector, drawn to the dense population. The other half, led by Reiner’s towering, armored thrall, charged after Eren’s group, their heavy footsteps shaking the earth.

  Arlet’s final breath escaped, a whisper in the fading light: “Eren… keep fighting.” His amethyst eyes dulled to gray, the Wrecker’s spark extinguished as darkness consumed him.

  ________________

  Air surrounding the refugee camp sector had grown still and cold, a false calm that clung to the rubbles. The distant, panicked screams from the far vicinity were a constant, grim reminder of the threat that had slipped its leash. But here, where shacks lay splintered and the earth was scarred from recent violence, the hunt was personal.

  Zs’Skayr floated amidst his chosen retinue, a court of nightmares. Reiner’s corrupted, armored form stood like a grotesque statue as its violet eyes scanned the ruins with a dull, programmed hatred. Around it, a dozen other thralls; former MPs and refugees; shambled with jerky unnatural movements, their heads cocked as they sniffed for a psychic scent only they could detect.

  “Find the boy,” Zs’Skayr’s voice rasped, a sound that seemed to leech the warmth from the very stones. “Tear this wretched camp apart until you do. His defiance has cost us enough time!”

  At the back of the ecto-lord’s mind he couldn’t help but be worried of the upending rise of his greatest problem...The sun. He had to acquire the boy’s body, and fast.

  The thralls let out a chorus of wet, guttural clicks and snarls, beginning to claw at piles of debris. Reiner’s form took a step forward, a massive, bladed arm rising to sweep aside a collapsed wall.

  Then a blur flashed by.

  That was all it was. A streak of black and blue so fast it was less a shape and more a slash of paint across the world. It ended as abruptly as it began.

  Standing atop a lone, precarious fence post, perfectly balanced on one foot, was a figure. It was sleek, a paradox of organic and mechanical design. The skin was a dark shade of onyx, like polished armor, segmented across the chest and limbs. Racing down Its sides and along his powerful, digitigrade legs were vibrant, electric-teal stripes that pulsed with a soft inner light. Its feet were large, stable ball shaped pads with two large toes, and its hands were three-fingered claws, sharp and precise. The head was helmet-like, streamlined for speed, with a sharp, almost beaked mouthplate and a single, continuous visor of deep blue that hid his eyes, reflecting the horrified world back at itself. From the back of the figure’s head swept short, fin-like spikes, each vibrating like bees. This was no simple speedster; this was a predator built for velocity.

  Every single violet eye snapped toward him. A chorus of guttural snarls erupted.

  Zs’Skayr’s upside-down skull tilted, his own luminous eye narrowing. A slow, grating chuckle escaped his jagged maw.

  “So… the little fly has grown tired of running. Has your courage finally eclipsed your cowardice, or have you simply come to accept the inevitable?”

  The figure’s posture was coiled and tense. The green slits behind his visor burned into the Ectonurite.

  “Courage? Cowardice?” Eren’s voice was distorted, higher-pitched, layered with an electric buzz, but the cold fury was unmistakably his. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just realized I was wasting my time running from a specter who preys on the helpless. A true ruler conquers armies, not orphans. You’re a scavenger. A vulture.”

  The air grew several degrees colder. The smug amusement vanished from Zs’Skayr’s face, replaced by pure, undiluted rage. The insult; the reduction of his majesty (Who cares) to that of a common carrion-eater; struck a nerve deeper than any physical blow.

  “You common welt—” Zs’Skayr began, his form swelling with dark energy.

  “Where is he?” Eren interrupted, his voice sharp as a whip crack. “Armin’s grandfather. What did you do to him?”

  Zs’Skayr’s rage subsided into a cruel, gloating calm. He relished the question. And Eren didn’t like it one bit.

  “The senile fool?” he purred, drifting slightly closer. “He made a… valiant… attempt to play the hero. He discovered that mortality is a currency with very little value in the face of true power. Let’s just say his spark has been… permanently extinguished. A fitting end for a failed Wrecker.”

  A cold knot of dread and fury tightened in Eren’s chest. The vague confirmation was worse than a detailed account. It left his mind to imagine the worst. The green light of his visor seemed to intensify, flickering like a storm.

  “You’re going to burn for that,” Eren buzzed, the promise absolute and cold.

  Then he moved.

  It wasn't a run; it was a vanishing act. One second he was there, the next, a Black-and-blue streak was already zipping down a narrow alleyway, kicking up a plume of dust.

  “BRING ME HIS CARCASS!” Zs’Skayr’s psychic shriek of fury echoed through the minds of every thrall. The horde surged forward as one, a wave of twisted flesh and violet light, with Reiner’s armored form crashing through shacks to follow.

  The chase was a mockery. Eren was a phantom, a will-o'-the-wisp (I think I said that correctly…). He would appear for a split second on top of a crumbling roof shack, drawing a volley of thrown debris from Reiner. Then he'd be gone, his laughter; a taunting, high-speed buzz; echoed from a completely different direction. He led them on a maddening spiral, further and further from the center of the camp, toward its eastern edge where the land was scarred by deep, wide irrigation ditches dug for Trost's farms.

  He led them straight toward his intended goal.

  As he ran, a part of his mind, cold and detached despite the anger fueling him, replayed the desperate planning session in the barn.

  “He’ll follow you, Eren. His ego won’t let him do otherwise.” Armin’s voice was tight with fear, but his mind was already several steps ahead.

  Then, Annie’s cold interjection cut through the barn’s silence, sharp and pragmatic. “Your plan has one glaring flaw. You might cage the wolf, but you’ll be surrounded by a pack of rabid dogs. We’ll be overrun.”

  Whatever hope they had sputtered, threatening to die. But Armin’s mind had already been racing, turning the problem inside out.

  “You’re right,” Armin had said, a strange, calculating light in his eyes. “We can’t fight them all. So…we won’t. We’re going to let them come. We’re going to let them all gather right where we want them.”

  Eren shot a glance over his shoulder. The horde was still there, Reiner’s massive form bulldozed a path through everything in his way.

  Good. They were all following. The plan was in motion.

  The boy turned Kineceleran put on a final burst of speed, zipping across a wide, open field pockmarked with these deep, man-made canyons. He stopped on the far side, turning to face his pursuers.

  As the thralls poured into the field, shrieking and howling, the ground itself betrayed them. The edges of the largest ditches, weakened by pre-placed lever equipment immediately gave way. Thralls tumbled over the edges by the dozen, plummeting into the deep trenches with startled screeches.

  “Good thing I’m fast enough to have made that ditch…” Eren muttered to himself as he watch more of Zs’Skayr’s thralls pour in, unable to stop their descent, pushed by the mindless momentum of the horde, creating a domino effect of falling bodies. In moments, the majority of the thralls were trapped, clawing impotently at the steep, hard-packed earth walls.

  But one thrall did not fall.

  Reiner’s 2 meter armored form reached the edge of a ditch. His claws dug into the opposite side, and with a terrifying show of strength, he simply vaulted across the gap, landing with a ground-shaking thud, his violet eyes locking onto Eren’s alien form with renewed fury. He was isolated from the main horde, which was now trapped and scrambling uselessly in the pits.

  “Of course you just had to be the exception.” Eren sneered as he backpedaled slowly, the armored thrall closing in on him.

  “The big armored one… he’s the problem. He won’t fall like the others.” Armin contemplated. If not handled right, this could lead to a disaster.

  The sheer insanity of it had hung in the air. Eren and Mikasa’s eyes widened, while Hannes had a furrowed eyebrow.

  “What are trying to say kid?”

  “Someone has to… to keep him separated. To hold him off.” Armin replied, his voice faltering for the first time as he voiced the plan’s biggest risk.

  A beat of grim silence ensued at that statement.

  “I’ll do it.”

  The offer came from Annie, her voice flat, but with an undercurrent of steel. She didn’t look at them, her gaze fixed on the wall, as if seeing the monstrous form of her former comrade. “If no one is up for the task, then I believe no objections is needed. And before you ask, yes; I can handle myself.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “I’ll go too.”

  Mikasa’s voice was immediate, leaving no room for debate. Her eyes weren’t on Annie with gratitude, but with cold assessment. This wasn’t about trust; it was about ensuring the job was done.

  “No, No! Absolutely not!” Eren’s protest was explosive. He stepped forward, his face a mask of anguish. “That’s suicide! You both should be getting to safety, not… not facing that thing!”

  Mikasa turned to him, her gaze softening just a fraction, but her resolve was unbreakable. “Eren, if that thing follows you to the irrigation site, the plan fails. You die. We all die. This is the only way.”

  “She’s right,” Annie added, her tone brutally matter-of-fact. She finally glanced at Eren, a cryptic, challenging look in her ice-blue eyes. “You have enough to worry about. Or did you forget how easily you were always defenseless without that device? Focus on the ghost. Let us handle the… muscle.”

  The reminder of their fight, of his own vulnerability, hit its mark. Eren flinched, his arguments dying in his throat. He looked from Annie’s cold certainty to Mikasa’s unwavering determination.

  Mikasa placed a hand on his good arm, her touch firm. “We can handle this, Eren. Trust us.”

  The words were simple, but they carried the weight of their entire shared history. He saw the promise in her eyes: I will protect your dream. And to do that, I will do this.

  A war raged in Eren’s eyes; protectiveness versus necessity, fear versus trust. Finally, his shoulders slumped in reluctant, fearful agreement. “Just… just be careful.”

  Armin, who had been holding his breath, let it out. The final, terrible piece of the plan was in place.

  “That’s the trade, they deal with the strongest thrall, we get the rest. You just get Zs’Skayr to the center. Alone.”

  It was a brutal, calculated split. A gamble that trusted Annie’s strength and Mikasa’s skill to contain their most powerful corrupted comrade, while the terrain itself handled the rank-and-file thralls.

  And that was precisely the plan.

  Just as the armored thrall was about to take another step, two figures emerged from the shadow of a tool shed. Mikasa, a pair of ODM gear swords in hand, her expression a mask of cold determination. And beside her, Annie, her broken arm cradled to a sling but her stance firm, her eyes burning with a promise of violence for what had been done to her comrades.

  They didn't look at Eren. Their focus was entirely on the corrupted Titan before them.

  “He’s ours,” Mikasa said, her voice barely a whisper but carrying absolute finality. Annie just nodded, a grim acceptance passing between them. This was a debt that needed to be paid.

  Eren gave one last look at the scene: his friend (s?) facing the monstrous thrall, the other thralls trapped in their pits. The first part of the plan was a success.

  Now for the second.

  His glowing green slits fixed on Zs’Skayr, who hovered just above the chaos as he had caught up with Eren, his ghostly form trembling with incandescent rage at the trickery.

  “Just you and me now, ‘Lord’,” Blitz buzzed, the title dripping with contempt. “No more puppets to hide behind.”

  Then he turned and ran, not at super-speed, but fast enough to be followed, leading the furious Ectonurite away from the din of battle and toward the silent, waiting expanse of the main irrigation site. The final stage was set.

  ________________

  Trost district…

  The heavy iron gate of Trost’s inner district groaned shut behind Hannes with a final, thunderous clang that felt like a tomb sealing. The relative silence on this side was deafening, broken only by the panicked sobs of the refugees who had made it through and the shouted, confused orders of the Garrison troops trying to form some semblance of a defensive line.

  Hannes stumbled, the weight of the unconscious Jochen on his back a dead, agonizing burden. Every muscle screamed in protest due to the immense effort. The world swam in and out of focus, a blur of torchlight and terrified faces. Until-

  “Hannes! By the Walls, man! Where the hell have you been?!”

  A hand clamped onto his arm, steadying him. It was Stefan, his face pale and etched with a mixture of relief and sheer panic. Behind him, Hank and a few other soldiers from their unit gathered, their eyes wide as they took in the scene.

  “We thought you were dead! We thought the riot got you both!” Hank’s voice was shrill then his eyes fixed onto Jochen’s lolling head, making them widen in shock.

  “What happened to him? Is he…?”

  “He’s alive,” Hannes rasped, his throat raw. He gently slid Jochen off his back into Stefan’s waiting arms. “But we’ve got bigger problems than a riot.”

  “Bigger problems…?” Hank repeated.

  “…Yeah.” Hannes said wearily, his mind replaying what had happened a few minutes prior.

  Few minutes ago…

  Hannes was being carried, the world a dizzying blur of environment. The wind tore at his clothes. One moment they were by the barn, the next they were at the far entrance to the refugee camp, the lights of Trost's inner gate visible in the distance. The speedster; Eren; set him and a stunned Carla down with impossible gentleness.

  “This is as far as I can take you,” Eren’s clicking (I guess) voice was urgent. “You have to get to Trost. Now.”

  “Eren, no! You can’t go back there alone!” Carla cried, her hand shooting out to grab his arm.

  “I have to! It’s the only way! Armin thinks… he thinks that thing will send his… his troops… to Trost. To cause panic. There could be dozens, hundreds more in the camp. I have to lead him away from here.”

  Carla’s face was a mask of terror, but her grip on his arm was firm. “You listen to me, Eren Yeager. You are my son. You come back. You come back to me. Do you understand? No stupid heroics! You be careful!”

  For a moment, the alien creature seemed to soften. “I will, Mom. I promise.”

  Then, he was gone. A blur vanishing back into the heart of the nightmare.

  The memory faded, leaving Hannes staring at Stefan and Hank’s bewildered faces.

  “It’s not a riot,” Hannes said, his voice a low haunted whisper, forcing himself to leave Eren’s name out of it. “The refugees… they weren’t lying.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hank demanded.

  “There are things out there,” Hannes said, the word ‘Titans’ feeling utterly inadequate. “Worse than Titans. They look like people, but their eyes… they glow. Violet. They’re fast. Strong. And they… they get inside you.” He met Stefan’s horrified gaze. “They possess you. Turn you into one of them.”

  A stunned silence fell. Hank shook his head, having enough of this madness. “Hannes, you’ve lost it. The brandy’s finally cooked your brain.”

  That’s it-

  “LOOK AT HIM!” Hannes roared, pointing at Jochen. “You think he did this to himself?! I saw it! I fought it! I killed one. It was wearing an MP’s face. It was eating a man. And then it tried to wear Jochen.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, deadly serious tone. “And the… the source of it all is still out there, drawing the big one away. But the rest… they’ve broken off. They’re heading straight for this gate.”

  The color drained from Stefan’s face. The distant screams from the other side of the gate now sounded like a marching army.

  “We have to warn the captain! Mobilize the entire garrison!” Stefan said urgently as he turned to go.

  “NO!” Hannes grabbed his arm. “There’s no time. And they’ll lock us up as crazies.” His eyes, wild and desperate, scanned the chaotic scene. “We do it ourselves. Right now.”

  “Do what, man?!” Hank cried. “Fight… whatever they are?!”

  “Fire,” Hannes said, the word a lifeline. “Fire hurts them. It forces the things to stay back. It makes them solid.” He pointed to the barrels of pitch, to the torches. “We set up a perimeter. Here, at the gate. We create a wall of flame. We get every soldier we can trust, and we tell them to aim for the eyes.”

  He looked at each of them, his gaze pleading and fierce. “This isn’t a drill. Those things get past this gate, and everyone in Trost is dead. Or worse. They won’t be people anymore.”

  The truth of his conviction finally broke through. Stefan nodded slowly, a grim determination settling on his features. “Alright, Hannes. You heard him! Pitch barrels! Hank, round up our squad! Move!”

  As the men scrambled, Hannes stood by the gate, staring at the massive iron bars. He could still feel the ghost of the wind from his impossible ride, and the echo of a mother’s desperate plea.

  ‘Be careful, kid.’ he thought, a desperate prayer. ‘Just buy us time.’

  _________________

  The world dissolved into a screaming vortex of speed and wind. Zs’Skayr, a comet of pure malice, streaked through the air, but on the ground, Eren as Blitz (Why is now I am introducing his alien’s name?! LOL) was a razor’s edge, always just ahead. He wove a cage of motion, leading the Ectonurite deeper into the desolate irrigation fields. The shacks and chaos of the camp fell away, replaced by the geometric scars of ditches and the silent, skeletal outlines of dormant farmland (Or is it wasteland?).

  Eren’s mind was crystal-clear inside the storm of his speed, able to accelerate information at blinding speed. He saw every pebble, every furrow. He saw the trapped thralls far behind. He saw, for a heart-stopping second, the distant flash of Mikasa’s blades. He really should help them out but he had to shut it out.

  Trust them. Focus.

  He burst into a wide, flat clearing at the heart of the fields. This was it. The ground was hard-packed earth, ringed by a thick border of dry, brittle timber.

  He stopped. The sudden cessation of motion was a physical shock while the silence was absolute.

  A fraction of a second later, Zs’Skayr materialized in the center of the clearing, his ectoplasmic form rippling with fury. The air temperature plummeting in sync.

  “ENOUGH!” The psychic word cracked the air. “This ends now!”

  Eren didn’t move. The sleek form of Blitz stood poised. Then he slammed the faceplate of the omnitrx, resulting in a flash of green. The powerful, alien body dissolved, shrinking back into the form of a small, dirt stained ten-year-old boy. Eren buckled on his knees slightly from slight vertigo, but his eyes held a cold fire.

  Zs’Skayr stared at the reverted boy with contempt. “You revert to this fragile flesh? Arrogant fool!”

  Eren pushed himself to his feet, a defiant smirk on his lips. “Just thought you weren’t worth the effort that’s all.” He said as he pulled out a torch beside him that was alit.

  Zs’Skayr’s eye followed the movement. A flicker of unease passed through him, replaced by a sneer. “Is that supposed to be your saving grace? A fickle of fire? Your precious light-weapon is shattered, child!”

  Eren held the torch firm, its flame dancing bravely admist the sheer horror before him. “You think so small,” Eren said, his voice steady. “For a being who claims to have seen stars die, you have no vision.”

  With that the brunette dashed toward the dry brush at the clearing's edge. But he was human now, and slow...He never made it.

  With a snarl of pure hatred, Zs’Skayr lunged. A clawed hand, wreathed in dark energy, swiped through the air where Eren’s head had been a moment before. Eren threw himself to the ground, the torch flying from his hand. He rolled, the cold death of the Ectonurite’s touch grazing his back, soaking through his shirt with a soul-numbing chill.

  Scrambling on all fours, he grabbed the torch again. Zs’Skayr was already recoiling for another strike as his form elongated, claws stretching out like spears.

  “You cannot even light your own pyre, child!” Zs’Skayr hissed, thrusting his claws forward.

  Eren didn’t try to run. He dove forward, under the lancing claws, feeling the frigid energy part the air above him. He hit the dirt at the base of the dry timber, shoved the torch into the brush, and rolled away as a claw slammed into the ground where he’d been.

  WHUMP.

  It was enough. The fire caught, exploding along the pre-arranged border with terrifying speed. A wall of flame roared to life, encircling the clearing.

  Zs’Skayr shrieked, a raw sound of panic and rage as the circle of fire closed. The heat was immense and the light was agonizing. He recoiled from the flames, his form wavering as his intangibility flickered under the blanket of light at his attempt to escape.

  “YOU TRAPPED ME!” he roared, his voice distorting.

  Eren stood panting, his heart hammering against his ribcage (Or is it chest?). As planned, right where they want him.

  “The plan was never to outrun you,” Eren gasped, the Titan marks on his face reflecting in the hellish light. “It was to get you right here.”

  He pressed his hand down on the Omnitrix dial. He rotated the faceplate to the being of living flame, the inferno that would turn this cage into an incinerator. The one alien that could withstand the heat and use it as a weapon.

  ‘Alright then, Zs’Skayr you are finished!’

  With the slam of his wrist, a green flash engulfed him. His body swelled, muscles and sinew expanding, erupting in a coat of thick, shaggy orange fur. His face elongated into a canine muzzle, his eyes sealed shut, his ears becoming huge sonic dishes on the sides of his head. Long powerful set of fore and hind legs morphed his limbs.

  The transformation died down.

  Eren stood on all fours, his powerful new body built for primal strength and seismic senses. But he had no eyes. He saw the world in a shimmering, sonic landscape of heat and vibration.

  And he had no flame.

  A guttural, frustrated roar erupted from his bestial throat. It was a sound of pure, animalistic rage.

  FUCK.

  He was Savage…Not Inferno.

  Across the clearing, Zs’Skayr, who had been backing from the flames, slowly straightened up. The initial panic subsided, replaced by a dawning, cruel understanding. From the boy’s body language, his weapon had failed him. He was trapped in here with a beast, a kindled vulpamancer no less, barely in its sprouting age.

  A slow, grating chuckle built in the Ectonurite’s chest, growing into a full-blown, manic laugh that competed with the roar of the fire.

  “Oh… oh, this is too perfect!” Zs’Skayr crowed, his form solidifying as his confidence returned. “You built your own oven, and you’ve locked yourself inside with me! The great hunter… reduced to a snarling animal!”

  Savage snarled, baring his fangs, his body tensed to pounce. The plan was in ruins. The fire was a barrier, a weakening field for Zs’Skayr, but it wasn't the weapon he needed.

  It was no longer a battle of element against element. It was a brutal, desperate fight for survival in a ring of fire. And Eren had just lost his only advantage.

  ‘…Correction, I’m the one that is finished.”

  ________________

  Back in the dim, dusty silence of the barn, the world had shrunk to the broken pieces in Armin’s hands. The distant roar of the fire and the occasional, faint screech that carried on the wind were the only reminders of the nightmare outside. Each sound was a hammer blow to his concentration, a reminder that every second was precious.

  “There has to be something that I can salvage from this scrap…” Armin murmured, his voice a hollow echo in the stillness. He wasn't talking to anyone; there was nobody to begin with in the first place. Armin was alone with his problem and the shattered pieces of their only hope.

  He pried away a piece of the shattered housing, his fingers trembling. Beneath it was a web of circuitry that defied understanding, and at its heart, the crystalline power cell. It still pulsed with a soft, captured golden light, a tiny, trapped sun.

  Fire will weaken him, Armin had deduced before, his mind a whirlwind of logic and fear. But this… this is pure. Concentrated. This could be the final blow.

  His eyes, red-rimmed and desperate, scanned the barn. Straw, splintered wood, a rusted pitchfork… nothing. Then he saw it. A cracked oil lamp, discarded in a corner, its glass bowl thick and slightly curved.

  An idea, fragile and insane, sparked.

  He moved with a frantic, focused energy, the image of his grandfather’s face fueling his determination. He grabbed the metal base of the Sun Gun, its core mounting still intact. He found a heavy, fist-sized stone and, with careful, deliberate strikes, began to hammer the metal. The clang of stone on metal was a jarring counterpoint to the distant chaos. He wasn’t a blacksmith; he was a scholar shaping desperation into a weapon. He bent the metal into a rough, concave dish, a pathetic imitation of the original’s perfect reflector, but it was all he had.

  Sweat dripped from his nose as he worked. He cleaned the grimy lamp glass with a strip of his shirt. For a reflector, Hannes had left his canteen back when he was tending to his wounded comrade, so that would surface. He used a sharp rock to tear a piece of the thin metal away. He wired the glowing power cell into the center of his makeshift dish, securing it with frayed strips of rope. The core hummed, its light flickering erratically. It was dying.

  With a final, prayer-like effort, he used a sticky glob of tree sap he’d scraped from a beam to seal the curved glass over the front of the dish, creating a crude, lopsided barrel.

  He held it up. The "Light Lance" was a pathetic sight. A mess of glass, twisted metal, and alien tech, held together by spit, hope, and sheer will. It trembled in his grasp.

  He looked toward the direction of the raging firelight, his heart a frantic drum in his chest.

  “Please, Eren,” he whispered into the tense silence of the barn, his prayer a stark contrast to the violence he was sending his friend toward. “Just a little more time. Just hold on.”

  On the other hand…

  ‘I’M GONNA BE FUCKING KILLED!’

  The thought wasn’t words; it was a primal scream that echoed through every fiber of Savage’s being. The world was a terrifying, eyeless panorama of heat and vibration. The ring of fire was a roaring, shimmering wall of agony to his senses. And at the center of the sonic landscape was the cold, solid wrongness (I need to learn new volcabulary) that was Zs’Skayr.

  The Ectonurite Lord, though visibly pained by the encompassing light, had regained his composure. His form was although negated to solid and corporeal, but his power was far from gone.

  “A beast!” Zs’Skayr taunted, his voice a grating scrape against Eren’s hyper-sensitive ears. “You are truly what you deserve to be! All instinct and no thought!”

  Savage snarled and launched himself forward, a blur of orange fur and muscle. He moved with incredible speed, aiming to sink his fangs into the solidified ectoplasm.

  But Zs’Skayr was ready. A clawed hand, reinforced with telekinetic energy, shot out and clamped around Savage’s muzzle with brutal force, stopping the lunge dead. The grip was like iron.

  “Futile!” Zs’Skayr snarled. With a contemptuous heave, he lifted the massive hound and threw him. Eren’s world spun as he sailed over the wall of fire, the searing heat licking at his fur for a terrifying second before he crashed down hard on the other side of the circle, tumbling through the dirt.

  Before Eren could even regain his footing, Zs’Skayr acted. His claws glowed with dark blue energy. He wasn’t trying to phase; he was commanding the environment. The dry, sandy earth at the base of the fire rippled. A wave of dirt and sand rose up like a tidal wave and slammed into a section of the fiery perimeter. The flames hissed and sputtered, desperately fighting the onslaught before being smothered, creating a narrow, charred gap in the fiery cage.

  Zs’Skayr strode through the breach, his solid form casting a long, cold shadow over the dazed Savage.

  “Your trap is broken, animal,” he hissed. “Now… to break you.”

  Eren scrambled back, but Zs’Skayr’s telekinesis was faster. The Ectonurite gestured, and a massive, half-buried boulder; a piece of fieldstone the size of a cart; ripped itself from the earth. It hovered for a moment, then shot toward Eren like a cannonball.

  There was no time to dodge. Savage could only brace.

  The impact was colossal. The boulder slammed into him, crushing the air from his lungs and sending him flying backward. He smashed into the hard ground with a sickening thud, his body screaming in pain. But the Omnitrix, strapped to the fur of his arm, took the brunt of the impact against the unyielding earth.

  CRACK-CHUNK!

  The sound was horribly familiar. The force of the blow had jarred the Omnitrix’s faceplate, slamming it against the ground hard enough to trigger…a mechanism.

  A flash of familiar green light, and the bestial form of Savage dissolved.

  And in its place, a new form rose; sleek, silvery, and metallic.

  The transformation was instantaneous. The pain from the boulder impact vanished, replaced by a cool, digital awareness. Eren looked down at his hands; they were made of a flowing, liquid metal. The symbol of the Omnitrix was displayed proudly on his chest along with a digitalized imprint of his father’s key etched to the green flowing circuits of his body.

  “Overhaul…I didn’t pick-When did I?”

  Ho-How?! Had that fall done something to cause this? Though that thought would have to be put on hold, because Zs’Skayr was advancing towards him, the fire was dying in sections, and he was now a completely different alien than the one he needed.

  “Don’t think I am through with you, Yeag-” Zs’Skayr halted his advance, his solid form trembling not with fear, but with pure, undiluted exasperation. The bestial hound was gone. In its place stood a silvery, flowing construct of liquid metal.

  “…”

  “…”

  “…”

  For a moment, both were speechless. Purple eye making contact with green circuitry. Then, a low, grating sound of disbelief escaped his jagged maw.

  “I am starting to question what I see in you boy…” he rasped, his voice dripping with a contempt so deep it could freeze lava. "First a mindless animal, now a... a walking tool? You are not a warrior; you are a child fumbling through a toy box of stolen powers. This chaotic shapeshifting is an insult to the very concept of battle! Choose a form and perish in it!"

  “I can’t, it just came up on its own!” Overhaul retorted, his voice a digitized echo of Eren’s frustration.

  A profound silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire.

  Then, something horrifying happened.

  Zs’Skayr’s head, the upside-down skull that defied all anatomy, began to move. It wasn't a tilt. It was a slow, grinding rotation. Bone scraped against ethereal bone with a sound that was utterly wrong as it pivoted a full one hundred and eighty degrees, settling into a normal, upright position. The single purple eye now sat where it should, above the jagged maw. It was somehow infinitely more terrifying than his usual monstrous visage. This was the face of a predator who had finally, truly lost all patience.

  The voice that emerged was no longer a rasp of fury, but a dark, chillingly calm and focused whisper.

  “You can’t…” Zs’Skayr mused, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. “…Or you won’t?”

  The implication was clear, a taunt that this was just another excuse, another delay.

  “I can’t!” Eren insisted, the metallic form gesturing at the watch’s template on his chest. “The device does what it wants!”

  The upright skull regarded him, the purple light in its socket seeming to sharpen, to pin him in place.

  “Then I shall simply have to ensure you stay that way…” Zs’Skayr replied, his tone dripping with a final, ominous certainty. His claws, wreathed in a fresh surge of telekinetic energy, began to glow with a violent, dark blue light.

  “…Permanently.”

  ________________

  Consciousness returned to Grandpa Arlet not as a gentle dawn, but as a shard of ice stabbing into his side with every ragged breath. Agony was the first thing he registered. The second was the cold, gritty feel of dirt against his cheek. The third was the memory: the shimmering dome, Zs’Skayr’s furious face, the telekinetic blow that had shattered his ribs and stolen the world away.

  Eren.

  The name cut through the pain like a lightning strike. He had failed. The ghost was free. And he was heading for the boy.

  A groan, wet and painful, escaped his lips as he pushed himself onto his elbows. The world swam, a nauseating tilt of darkness and the distant, hellish flow of smoke from far ahead. He could feel the deep, worrying warmth of blood escaped his lips. He was a wreck (See what I did there? Just me…okay) and he had overdone it…again.

  But he wasn't dead yet.

  Can't let him… get Eren…

  It was the only thought that mattered. It was the fuel that forced his trembling limbs to obey. Using a splintered piece of wood from the floor as a crutch, he hauled himself to his feet. Every step was a fresh exercise in torture, a white-hot fire igniting in his chest. He was a ghost himself, a spent, broken old man wobbling through a landscape of nightmares, following the psychic chill that Zs’Skayr left in his wake like a trail of frost.

  He didn't get that far.

  Passing refugee housings, his journey led him past the crystalline monument of Eren’s earlier struggle: the massive, jagged crystal dome. And there, encased within a flawless diamond like a fly in amber, was the thrall that had once been Bran. The boy’s face was frozen in a silent snarl, one violet eye still glowing with mindless malice, a terrifying fossil of Zs’Skayr’s corruption.

  Arlet stopped, leaning heavily on his crutch, his breath coming in shallow, painful hitches. He stared at the trapped horror, a conflict raging in his weary soul. This was a victim, a child twisted into a monster. But he was also a weapon, a piece of Zs’Skayr’s army. To leave him was a risk. To shatter the crystal… did he have the right? Did he have the strength to put down a child, even a possessed one?

  The moral calculus was a luxury he didn’t have time for.

  A sound cut through his thoughts; a low, wet, grinding noise, like massive stones being ground together. It was followed by a tremor in the earth.

  Arlet’s blood ran colder than the night air. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head.

  Lumbering out of the shadows between the ruined shacks was a nightmare given form. Bertholdt’s thrall. The colossal Titan-host was regenerated, its head partially reformed into a twisted, skeletal mask. One eye glowed violet, the other was a milky, blind white. Steam, tainted with shadows, rose from its grotesque body where Ectonurite tendrils pulsed through its flesh. It was five meters of corrupted, shambling death, and its blank, malevolent gaze was fixed directly on him.

  It stood between him and the direction Zs’Skayr had gone. Between him and Eren.

  Grandpa Arlet’s grip tightened on his makeshift crutch. The twisted piece of wood felt pathetically inadequate. He had no gauntlets. No energy. Just a broken body and a will that was rapidly exhausting by the minute.

  He looked from the encased Bran to the advancing Bertholdt-thrall, a grim, hopeless realization settling in his gut.

  Double shit.

  The colossal thrall took a ground-shaking step forward, its massive, distorted hand reaching down toward the frail old man. The fight looked like it was over before it could even begin.

  “Fine then,” Grandpa Arlet said, forcefully reigniting the little power he had left, his eyes returning to the amethyst color it once held.

  “Come at me.”

  ________________

  All that exist to the cramped world was a road of dirt, shattered wood, and the hulking monstrosity that stood between them and the rest of the battle. The guttural snarls of the lesser thralls trapped in the ditches were a distant chorus, a reminder of the larger nightmare, but here, the threat was singular and immense.

  Reiner’s armored thrall stood its ground, its violet eyes burning with mindless hate. Mikasa, having taken the ODM blades from Hannes’s discarded gear, held them in a reverse grip, her body a coiled spring of lethal grace. Annie stood a few feet away, favoring her broken arm, but her stance was low and ready, a predator assessing her prey.

  The thing charged. It wasn’t the graceful, powerful lunge of the Armored Titan, but a jerky, brutal shunt forward, like a machine with broken gears. Yet, the power behind it was undeniable. It swung a bladed arm, the size of a tree trunk, in a wide, decapitating arc.

  Mikasa didn’t meet it. She flowed under the swing, the ODM blades scraping sparks off the armored plating on its wrist. She was a blur, using her speed to slash at the backs of its knees, the joints in its hips; any gap in the warped, violet-veined armor. The blades bit, drawing black, weeping ichor, but the thrall barely seemed to notice.

  Annie, meanwhile, darted in from the side. A lightning-fast kick, driven by all the strength her good leg could muster, cracked against the thing’s armored ribs. A fissure spiderwebbed across the plate, but it held. The thrall backhanded her, and even though she rolled with the blow, the impact sent her skidding through the dirt, gritting her teeth against the fresh wave of pain from her injuries.

  “What is this thing?” Mikasa hissed, leaping back as a massive foot stomped down where she’d been standing. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fury and horror, scanned the corrupted form. “It looks like… like the Armored Titan. Did that ghost make a copy?”

  Annie pushed herself up, spitting dirt. “How am I supposed to know.” she retorted, her voice cold and sharp, laced with a bitterness Mikasa couldn’t yet understand. “As far as I know, it didn’t make a copy. It corrupted someone to make this. That… thing… was a person. Whi knows what else that ghost monster could do?”

  As monstrous as it was, it is true. This wasn’t a creation; it was a desecration.

  Mikasa’s gaze flicked to Annie, her distrust a palpable force. “I still don’t trust you. For all of this… this madness… you seem to be taking Eren’s abilities rather… normally.”

  Annie let out a harsh, humorless laugh that was more of a scoff. “Normally? Don’t mistake silence for acceptance. But right now, that ‘madness’ is the only thing standing between us and being turned into one of those.” She gestured with her chin toward the thrall, which was shaking its head like a bull, its glowing eyes fixed on them.

  “But since we’re sharing observations… you realized he had this kind of power and decided it was just another day? What, does he turn into a different monster every Tuesday?"

  Mikasa’s grip on the blades tightened. “We should focus on the threat in front of us.”

  “Oh, I am,” Annie pressed, her ice-blue eyes narrowing. “But a girl gets curious. You are a friend of his aside from the other kid. You had to have known. So, what’s the story? Is he a demon? A science experiment? Or is he just… built different?” The question was a barb, meant to probe, to unsettle.

  Before Mikasa could retort, the armored thrall let out a roar; not a Titan’s challenge, but a raw, frustrated scream of pure, throttled rage. Its eyes flared violently, the violet light intensifying as if Zs’Skayr’s own fury was being channeled directly into it. The distraction was over. It lowered its head and charged again, this time with renewed, single-minded fury.

  The temporary truce of words shattered under the immediate need for survival.

  “We’ll finish this later,” Mikasa stated, her voice leaving no room for argument.

  “Count on it,” Annie shot back, but she was already moving, a mirror of Mikasa’s intent.

  The thrall swung for Mikasa. This time, she didn’t dodge fully. Instead, she met the blow, crossing the ODM blades in a desperate parry. The force was immense, knocking her off her feet, but it stopped the arm’s momentum.

  It was the opening Annie needed. She lunged, not at the armor, but at the fissure she’d created earlier on its ribs. She drove the hardened point of her good hand, fingers stiffened like a spike, deep into the crack. Black ichor spurted, and the thrall roared in genuine pain, its attention whipping toward her.

  Mikasa was already back on her feet. Seeing the thrall distracted, she used her innate Ackerman prodigy instinctively (Yes instinctively, not like she knows what the Ackerman bloodline is for now) to accelerate herself, and drove both blades into the back of the thing’s other knee.

  The armored thrall stumbled, one leg buckling.

  It was hurt. It was angry.

  And it was still very, very much between them and their friends. The unresolved tension simmered, pushed down but not forgotten, fuel for the brutal dance of death that had only just begun.

  ________________

  Trost district…

  Once the chaotic flood of refugees had slowed to a trickle till it stopped entirely, what was only left was an unnatural silence that was more terrifying than any scream in the inner gates. The air was a foul cocktail of sweat, fear, and the sharp, oily scent of pitch. The tension could nearly be chocked on quite easily.

  Hannes stood at the forefront of a ragged line of Garrison soldiers. Behind them, the massive iron-barred gate was sealed shut. Before them, the wide thoroughfare that led into the refugee sector was a tunnel of darkness, dotted with the guttering flames of their last line of defense: a staggered row of torches and barrels of pitch, ready to be lit.

  "Steady," Hannes muttered, the word meant as much for himself as for the men around him. His voice was rough, stripped raw. To his left, Stefan clutched his rifle so tightly his knuckles were white. To his right, Hank had abandoned his usual scowl for a look of pale, grim determination. Every soldier there, from the greenest recruit to the most grizzled veteran, had the same wide-eyed, haunted look. They’d been told they were facing monsters. Not Titans, but something new. Something that wore human faces.

  They were garrison. Gate-watchers. They weren't the Scouts. This kind of horror wasn't in their training manual, hell not even the scouts do this kind of shit. Yet, not a single one had broken ranks. The order had been given; a desperate, unofficial order passed in hushed tones from Hannes to Stefan to the few squad leaders who would listen. Hold the gate. Fire is the key.

  The only sounds were the crackle of their torches, the nervous shuffle of boots on cobblestone, and the ragged rhythm of their own breathing. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Each shadow that moved in the distant ruins of the camp made a dozen rifles twitch upward.

  Then, the silence broke.

  It started as a low, collective sound. Not a roar, not a scream, but a wet, guttural murmuring. It was the sound of dozens of throats making noises they were never meant to make.

  And then, the eyes appeared.

  At the far end of the thoroughfare, where the darkness was deepest, pinpricks of light ignited. One pair. Then ten. Then thirty. A field of sickly, glowing violet stars, all fixed on the thin line of soldiers and their pathetic wall of fire.

  The murmuring resolved into snarls, into clicks, into the sound of dragging, stumbling feet. The thralls emerged from the gloom, a shambling tide of corrupted humanity. Their movements were jerky and messed up. Some were missing limbs, their wounds weeping black ichor. Others had jaws hanging slack, unhinged. But their eyes… all their eyes burned with the same vacant, hungry malevolence.

  "Walls protect us." Stefan breathed, his rifle trembling.

  Hannes felt a cold dread seize his heart. There were so many. Far more than he’d imagined. Their fireline seemed laughably small.

  "Remember the plan!" Hannes yelled, his voice cutting through the rising panic as he kept on his bravado. "Aim for the lights in their heads! Nothing else matters! Light the barrels!"

  A soldier nearest the pitch barrels thrust his torch forward. With a loud WHOOSH, the volatile liquid ignited, sending a wall of flame roaring to life between the advancing horde and the gate.

  The thralls didn't stop. They didn't even slow. They simply walked into the fire.

  The front ranks caught alight, their clothes and flesh burning, but they didn't scream in pain. They screeched in fury, stumbling forward as living torches until they collapsed. More simply walked over their smoldering bodies, their violet eyes unwavering.

  They were going to march straight through the flames, and straight into their brethren’s carcasses.

  Hannes raised his rifle; the bayonet pointed at the nightmare approaching through the fire. His mouth was dry as dust.

  "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" he roared.

  With that the sounds of gunshots erupted in the air.

  ________________

  The world was a cacophony of roaring fire and hissing, malevolent energy. Armin ran, his lungs burning, his legs screaming in protest. The "Light Lance" felt pathetically flimsy in his hands, a jumble of scrap and hope. He had to reach Eren. He had to—

  CRASH!

  A silvery, metallic form slammed into the ground a few feet in front of him, impact cratering the hard-packed earth. Armin skidded to a halt, heart in his throat. It was Eren…or what was left of him. His body was a distorted, liquid metal puddle, like a dropped quicksilver sculpture.

  "Eren!" Armin cried out, rushing forward.

  The puddle quivered, then began to flow. Limbs re-formed, a head shaped itself, and in moments, Overhaul was standing again, his green optic sensors blinking rapidly as he reoriented himself. He looked down at his own hands, then at Armin.

  "Armin! Do you have it?" Eren's voice was a digitized buzz, urgent and strained.

  Armin held up the jury-rigged (See what I did there, Juryrig?...Never mind) Light Lance, its pulsing core looking dangerously unstable. "I… I think so! It’s—"

  A wave of soul-crushing cold washed over them.

  "Touching."

  Zs’Skayr emerged from the shimmering heat haze near the fireline, his solid form striding toward them with terrifying purpose. His upright skull was a mask of cold fury. He ignored Eren completely, his single, burning purple eye locked on Armin and the device in his hands.

  "The senile fool's legacy, wielded by the grandson," he rasped. "A fittingly pathetic end to his bloodline."

  He moved with blinding speed, a clawed hand shooting directly for Armin's heart.

  "NO!" Eren roared.

  Eren’s body didn't attack; it expanded. He became a wave of living warped metal, shooting forward and enveloping Zs’Skayr in a silvery cocoon. For a moment, the Ectonurite was completely trapped, a statue of writhing liquid metal.

  "RUN, ARMIN!" Eren's voice was muffled, coming from the liquid metal itself.

  But Zs’Skayr’s strength, even solidified, was immense. With a sound of tearing metal and a guttural roar, his claws ripped through the galvanic mechamorph form from the inside, shredding the cocoon. Eren recoiled with a digitized cry of discomfort and pain (I have no idea if Upgrade feels pain, but…who knows?) his form splattered back, struggling to coalesce.

  Zs’Skayr didn’t even glance at him. His focus was absolute. He was in front of Armin in an instant. A backhanded swipe, fueled by telekinetic force, sent the Light Lance flying from Armin's grasp. It clattered to the ground, and Zs’Skayr’s foot came down on it with a sickening crunch of glass and metal.

  The fragile core flickered and died.

  "NO!" Armin screamed, despair washing over him. It was over. Their last hope was shattered. Again.

  Zs’Skayr’s claw closed around Armin’s throat, lifting him off the ground. Armin gagged, clawing at the iron grip, his vision spotting. The ectonurite paused in his advancement as something caught his eye.

  "The sun…" Zs’Skayr muttered, his eye flicking to the horizon where the first faint hints of grey and orange were lightening the sky. "Dawn approaches. An inconvenience. I require a vessel. And you…" His grip tightened around Armin’s neck. "You should consider yourself lucky. Your frail, insignificant body will be the chrysalis for a god."

  Armin felt a coldness far deeper than the hand on his throat begin to seep into him. Zs’Skayr’s form began to blur, to become intangible, ready to pour into him.

  No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!! Get it out, get it out, GET IT OUT!!!

  A searing green beam of plasma lanced through the air, striking Zs’Skayr square in the shoulder. It was a direct hit from one of the optic sensors on Eren’s reformed chest. The Ectonurite snarled in pain and surprise, his grip loosening just enough for Armin to drop to the ground, gasping.

  Eren, now fully reformed, didn't charge. He lunged, grabbed Armin by the arm, and yanked him back, putting distance between them and the furious ghost.

  "It's broken!" Armin choked out, tears of frustration and terror in his eyes as he pointed to the shattered device. "It's over, Eren!"

  Eren’s digital eye looked from the broken pieces to Zs’Skayr, who was now rising, his form trembling with an energy that was making the very air hum. The ectonurite was looking at the rising sun with pure panic. The grey light of dawn was not just a warning; it was an executioner's axe hovering over his neck.

  "NO!" The denial was a psychic shriek that echoed in the minds of every being connected to him. He couldn’t stay out here much longer, nor could he let go of his prized possession. What to do, what to do!-

  Zs’Skayr’s twisted mind came up with a brilliant idea, fitting to his own image; he just requires a bit of…assistance.

  "No, it's not Armin." Eren said, his voice suddenly calm with realization, unknowing of the situation at hand. "It just needs…an upgrade."

  Eren’s body dissolved again. This time, he flowed across the ground not as a wave, but as a stream of liquid metal, directly into the shattered components of the Light Lance. The silvery substance enveloped the broken glass, the twisted metal, the dead power cell. There was a sound of shifting, clicking, and reforming. In seconds, the pathetic scrap heap was gone. In its place was a sleek, high-tech cannon, glowing with vibrant green circuits. The core at its center now blazed with the intensity of a miniature star.

  "Whoa," Armin breathed, scrambling to his feet as the weapon settled into his hands. It was light, perfectly balanced, humming with immense power.

  But their moment of hope was shattered by a sound of utter revulsion…and it was coming from Zs’Skayr. The ecto-lord’s body began to convulse. It was not a voluntary action but a violent, horrific spasm. His skeletal frame scrunched in on itself, bones audibly groaning. The black stripes across his body writhed like electrocuted worms. But the true horror was the sound; a wet, tearing, sucking noise that seemed to pull at the very fabric of the air around him.

  Zs’Sakyr was not just drawing on power; he was violently reclaiming the very essence he had used to create and sustain his thralls. He was consuming his own children to save himself.

  ________________

  Trost District…

  The battle at the gate was a meat grinder. The thralls, mindless and relentless, had pushed through the fire. A Garrison soldier screamed as a thrall that had been a woman wrapped its arms around him, its jaw unhinging. A wisp of black smoke poured into his mouth.

  He convulsed, his eyes flashing violet. He turned on his comrades, a snarl on his lips.

  That was when something unexpected happened.

  All across the battlefield, every single thrall; the ones burning, the ones fighting, the one that had just possessed the unfortunate Garrison; staggered as one. A collective, agonized shudder ran through them. Their violet eyes flickered like faulty candles.

  The newly possessed Garrison dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat. The black smoke was violently ripped out of him, screaming back into the late night as if pulled by an invisible cord. All around, thralls collapsed, the malevolent light in their eyes snuffing out, leaving behind dazed, human pupils clouded with pain and terror.

  But the horror wasn't over. They were still trapped. The thrall woman looked down at her hand; her skin was still sickly gray, black veins pulsing beneath the surface. Her jaw ached, feeling loose and wrong. A chorus of confused, terrified sobs and screams rose from the dozens of former thralls. They were themselves again, but imprisoned in monstrous, twisted bodies.

  "Monsters! They're still monsters!" a Garrison soldier yelled, raising his rifle.

  “W-Wait please-!” One of the reformed thralls called out as rifles were pointed at them.

  "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Hannes bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic. He stared, his own rifle lowering.

  “Hannes, what the hell?!” Hank called out in confusion.

  Hannes didn’t reply yet, all he saw was the terror in their eyes. Even with the grotesque appearance, they looked profoundly…human.

  Their eyes…it wasn’t purple anymore.

  “It's gone! The light is gone!”

  The garrisons; while begrudgingly; held the line. A tense, bewildered standoff with dozens of horrified, mutated people.

  However unknowst to most of the other garrisons, one begged to differ, their hand quivering ever so slightly to the trigger.

  Near Irrigation ditch…

  Mikasa’s ODM blade was poised for a killing thrust at the armored thrall’s neck. Annie was ready to shatter its other knee. The monster, in turn, had its bladed arm raised to crush them both.

  In that frozen moment, the armored thrall froze.

  Its entire body seized up. A guttural, pained gasp, shockingly human, escaped its distorted maw. The violent violet light in its eyes vanished, snuffed out like a candle. The massive form swayed, the unnatural strength deserting it. The armor plates seemed to lose their sinister gleam, becoming just… warped, diseased flesh.

  The eyes that blinked open were hazy, confused, and filled with a soul-deep exhaustion. They were Reiner’s golden eyes.

  His gaze, clouded with pain, drifted past Mikasa and landed on Annie. There was a moment of impossible recognition in their depths. His lips, torn and misshapen, moved.

  "…Annie…?" The word was a ragged, broken whisper.

  Then, the last of his strength gave out. His eyes rolled back, and the massive thrall form crumbled to the ground with a ground-shaking thud, unconscious.

  Annie stood frozen, her own injuries forgotten. The sound of her name, spoken from that mouth, hit her like a physical blow. She took a hesitant, stumbling step forward, her cold mask shattered into a look of sheer, uncomprehending shock.

  Other side of Refugee camp…

  Grandpa Arlet braced for impact, staring up at the colossal, corrupted form of Bertholdt’s thrall. The massive hand descended making the old man raise his clutch up as a form of defense.

  Then, the thrall shuddered violently. It let out a low moan, a sound of profound agony, and stumbled backward. The violet light in its eyes died. The ectoplasmic enhancements receded like evaporating mist, until all that was left was the unconscious, poorly discolored and pale body of Bertholdt Hoover, crumpled on the ground, though still massive in height.

  Simultaneously, a sharp crack echoed from the crystal dome. The diamond prison containing Bran shattered. The thrall-form collapsed, the violet light vanishing from its eyes. It twitched, and the corrupting influence bled away, leaving behind just Bran, bruised and terrified, but himself…or what was left of himself. He looked down at his own hands, at his twisted, grayish limbs that looked anything but normal flesh. The memory of what he had been, what he had done, flooded him.

  Yeager brat knocking him out…

  The feeling of helplessness like the others trapped like him…

  Then that demonic ghost as it gazed down on him like a waiting meal…

  The ghost…

  The teen’s initial trauma contorted, twisting into a white-hot, venomous rage. He looked up, his eyes blazing with hate not for the people around him, but for the source of his torment.

  "Ghost freak," he spat, the words dripping with a promise of vengeance.

  ________________

  Zs’Skayr’s body began to swell and distort. The black stripes on his form writhed like living serpents, his tentacles lashing wildly. His bones cracked and elongated; and his claws grew into monstrous scythes. He grew taller, more monstrous, a horrifying abomination of concentrated ectoplasm and stolen Titan energy. He was still recognizably Zs’Skayr, but he was now a towering, nightmarish version of himself, his single eye a blazing purple inferno of pain and rage.

  "NO MORE GAMES!" his voice boomed, now layered with the echoes of a hundred stolen souls.

  The writhing tentacles on his chest coalesced, forming a pulsating, vortex of dark energy. It glowed with a malevolent purple-and-black light, sucking the warmth from the air.

  Armin and Eren stared, horrified. Just what the hell were they looking at?!

  "EREN!" Armin yelled.

  "FIRE IT!" Eren's voice shouted from within the cannon.

  Armin didn't hesitate. He aimed the upgraded Light Lance as Zs’Skayr unleashed the blast; a thick, coruscating beam of pure void that screamed toward them, promising absolute erasure.

  At the same moment, Armin pulled the trigger.

  A lance of concentrated sunlight, so pure and intense it was almost white, erupted from the cannon. It wasn't a beam; it was a solid shaft of dawn itself.

  The two forces met in the center of the clearing with a cataclysmic CRACK-BOOM! that shook the earth. Light and darkness warred, a blinding, deafening stalemate of opposing energies. The force of the collision created a swirling maelstrom, kicking up dust and debris.

  Armin gritted his teeth, his entire body shaking as he poured all his strength into holding the cannon steady, the heat from the barrel scorching his hands. Inside the weapon, he could feel Eren's will, a fierce, determined presence, fueling the blast.

  It was a tug-of-war between the rising sun and the dying night. And the first rays of true dawn were finally beginning to crest over the Walls.

  __________________

  The silence at the gate was more terrifying than the battle had been. The thralls—no, the people; stood frozen, a gallery of monstrous forms with human eyes wide with confusion and fear. They clutched at their greyish skin, their distorted limbs, feeling the horror of their own bodies.

  The Garrison line held their rifles, a wall of trembling steel and frayed nerves. Hannes stood slightly ahead, his hands raised, his heart hammering. "Steady! Everyone, just stay steady! Look at them! They're scared, just like us!"

  A young thrall, a boy who couldn't be older than fifteen, took a hesitant step forward. His voice was a dry, rasping croak. "Th-thank y—"

  BANG!

  The gunshot was deafening. It came from a soldier named Rolf, whose face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated panic. The bullet went wide, zipping past the boy's head and embedding itself in a wooden post.

  "THEY'RE TRICKING US!" Rolf screamed, his finger white on the trigger. A chorus of shouts and the clicks of other rifles readying to fire erupted along the line.

  "HOLD YOUR FIRE! DAMN YOU, HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Hannes bellowed, lunging at Rolf and shoving the barrel of his rifle toward the sky.

  Rolf whirled on him, eyes wild. "Get off me, Hannes! You saw what they did! They could be pretending! I didn't sign up for this shit! I signed up to keep Titans out, not to play nursemaid to... to things!"

  "They're people, you fool!" Hannes snarled, trying to wrestle the gun away.

  "Are they?!" Rolf spat, his paranoia twisting into something uglier. He shoved Hannes back, leveling the rifle directly at his chest. "Or are you one of them?! Maybe that's why you're so keen to save them! Maybe you're a monster in disguise!"

  The world seemed to stop. A half-dozen soldiers, those who trusted Hannes, immediately swung their rifles away from the thralls and pointed them at Rolf.

  "Lower your weapon, Rolf!" Stefan yelled, his voice cracking.

  Another group, just as terrified and convinced by Rolf's hysteria, kept their guns trained on the thralls. The Garrison was now split, a tense, armed standoff in the middle of the street, with the victims of the night caught in the crossfire.

  Meanwhile, the thralls began to whimper and shuffle backward. It wasn't the guns they feared now. The first direct rays of the morning sun were touching their mutated skin. A deep, instinctual, cellular panic set in; a final, dying echo of Zs'Skayr's essence within them screaming at the touch of the light they were never meant to endure.

  ________________

  It was all now a clash of power between both sides, the atmosphere shrunken to the screaming vortex of energy between them. On one side, a lance of pure, concentrated sunlight, so bright it bleached the color from the world. On the other, a beam of absolute void, a darkness that seemed to swallow the very sound of the conflict.

  Armin’s arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets. The upgraded Light Lance bucked in his hands, the heat from the barrel searing his palms. He could feel Eren’s presence inside the weapon; a fierce, desperate, sustaining will; pouring every ounce of power into the blast.

  "YOUR EFFORT IS PATHETIC!" Zs’Skayr’s voice boomed from his monstrous form, layered with the screams of the thralls he’d consumed energy from. "YOU FIGHT THE INEVITABLE WITH A SPARK! I HOLD A UNIVERSE OF DARKNESS!"

  With a final, horrific surge, the ectonurite poured more stolen power into his attack. The dark beam swelled, pushing back the lance of light. Inch by terrible inch, the void advanced. The white-hot energy sputtered, flickering. Armin cried out, his knees buckling under the strain. It was too much. They were losing.

  No! The thought wasn’t Armin’s. It was Eren’s, a raw, wordless scream of defiance that echoed from within the cannon. He wouldn’t lose. Not after all of this.

  Not after Grandpa Arlet.

  Not after everyone had suffered.

  Inside the weapon, Eren didn’t just channel power; he became it. He poured his entire being; his rage, his guilt, his unwavering will to protect; into the core. The green circuits on the cannon blazed with an emerald fire. The shaft of sunlight didn't just stabilize; it exploded outward, burning with the intensity of a newborn star.

  The look on Zs’Skayr’s face shifted from triumphant malice to sheer, unadulterated terror.

  The sun… he could feel it. The first true ray of morning light crested the Wall, striking his distorted form. A wisp of smoke rose from his shoulder. He was being burned from two sides.

  "NO! NO! THIS CANNOT BE!" he shrieked, his voice losing its layered power, becoming a solitary, desperate wail.

  The lance of light consumed the dark beam entirely. It didn't just defeat it; it erased it. The pure, focused dawn slammed into Zs’Skayr’s monstrous form.

  There was no scream. There was a silent, expanding wave of light. When it faded, Zs’Skayr was gone. Vaporized. Only a scorched mark on the earth remained.

  The Light Lance sparked, fizzled, and fell silent. A flash of red light erupted from it as Eren was forcibly dislodged. He reverted to his human form, collapsing onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. The device itself crumbled into a pile of inert, scorched scrap.

  Panting, sweat pouring down his face, Eren looked up. The sun was rising. The fire around the clearing was dying down. It was over.

  It was…really over.

  The brunette turned to his best friend, a weary, hopeful smile touching his lips. "Armin…" he rasped, extending his hand to a fist bump. "It's… it's over. We did it."

  Armin didn't respond. He stood perfectly still, his head bowed, his blonde hair hiding his face.

  "Armin?" Eren’s smile faltered. “You okay?”

  Slowly, Armin’s hand rose. But it didn’t reach for Eren in celebration. It shot out with unnatural speed, clamping around Eren’s throat in a grip of iron. It wasn't the grip of a scholar; it was the grip of a predator.

  Eren gagged, his eyes widening in shock and confusion.

  Armin’s head lifted.

  His eyes were open…but they were no longer blue.

  They glowed with a sick, familiar violet light. Spiderweb-like cracks of dark energy spread from the corners of his eyelids, marring his face. A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips, a expression Eren had never seen on his best friend's face.

  The voice that came out was a horrifying blend of Armin’s soft tones and Zs’Skayr’s grating rasp.

  "Yeah," the thing wearing Armin’s face said, its grip tightening. "I couldn't agree all the more, Yeager."

  The victory…had been a lie. The battle had been a distraction.

  In his final, desperate moment, Zs’Skayr hadn't tried to win the beam struggle. He had abandoned his own body and performed one last, detestable effort.

  He had hidden himself in the last place Eren would ever think to look.

  Inside his best friend.

  ________________

  Grandpa Arlet worked carefully, using a sharp piece of crystal to chip away at the diamond prison holding Bran. Each breath was a stab of pain from his broken ribs, but he persevered. With a final crack, the encasement shattered, and Bran stumbled out, collapsing to his knees on the dirt.

  He was breathing heavily, his body still bearing the grey pallor and faint black veins of his possession. But his eyes burned with a fury that was entirely his own.

  "That... ghost freak..." Bran snarled, the words dripping with venom. He punched the ground, his fist cracking the dry earth. "I'll kill him. I'll find him and I'll tear him apart!"

  Grandpa Arlet paused, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch. "You... you know what he is, kid?”

  "I don't know his damn name!" Bran shouted, looking up with tears of rage in his eyes. "I know he's the one who was in my head! The one who made me... made me do things... I could feel him. His... coldness." He clutched his chest as if he could still feel the invasive presence. "But I can still feel something else. A... a pull. Like a thread."

  He glared off towards the eastern edge of the camp, where the sky was brightest. "He's that way. I know it. And he's scared. I can feel that too. The sun's coming up, and he's terrified."

  "Kid, wait," Grandpa Arlet said, his voice weary but firm. "You're in no condition—"

  "To hell with that!" Bran yelled, staggering to his feet. He looked down at his own twisted hands, then back in the direction of the rising sun, a grimace of pain and determination on his face. "He's mine."

  __________________

  In Eren’s mind, the world had not been saved. It had been twisted into a more intimate, more horrific hell.

  Eren scrambled backward, his throat burning where Armin’s—no, Zs’Skayr’s—hand had clamped down. The rising sun, which should have been a symbol of victory, now felt like a cruel spotlight on his failure.

  “Armin… please…” Eren choked out, his voice raw.

  The thing wearing his best friend’s face smiled, a grotesque parody of Armin’s gentle expressions. The violet eyes glowed with malicious delight. “Please? Please what, Eren? Fight back? Go on. Hit me.”

  Eren…couldn’t. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. This was Armin. The boy who dreamed of the ocean, who solved problems with words, not fists. To strike him was to desecrate everything they were.

  Zs’Skayr lunged. The attack was clumsy, telegraphed; Armin’s body was not built for this. But Eren’s hesitation was his undoing. He managed to grab the possessed Armin’s wrists, wrestling him to the ground. He pinned him, his own body trembling with the effort of restraint.

  “Fight it, Armin!” Eren screamed into his face.

  The violet light in Armin’s eyes flickered. The spiderweb cracks receded. The struggle in his limbs ceased, replaced by a confused weakness. Armin’s own, terrified blue eyes looked up at Eren. It looked like a miracle had happened.

  “E-Eren?” he whispered, his voice small and lost. “What’s… what’s happening? Why are you…?”

  The hope that surged in Eren’s chest was a blinding, painful thing. “Armin! You’re in there! You have to fight him!”

  He loosened his grip, just for a fraction of a second.

  …It was all Zs’Skayr needed.

  The violet light slammed back into Armin’s eyes with violent force. A cruel laugh erupted from Armin’s mouth as his hand, now fueled by alien strength, broke free and delivered a backhanded blow that sent Eren spinning into the dirt, his lip splitting open.

  “So predictable!” Zs’Skayr crowed, standing over him. “So weak! Your sentimentality is a leash, and I hold the chain!”

  The cycle repeated. A taunt, a brief, heartbreaking glimpse of Armin’s consciousness offered like a cruel joke, followed by a vicious attack. Eren was being emotionally flayed alive. The sun climbed higher, its rays beginning to shine on the two individuals, but thanks to Zs’Skayr’s absolute grip on Armin, he doesn’t get hurt by it.

  Finally, he had Eren pinned on his back, Armin’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing the life from him. Spots danced in Eren’s vision.

  “Does this feel familiar, Yeager?” Zs’Skayr purred, leaning close, Armin’s face inches from his. “The choking. The helplessness. Remember when you did this to the girl? Oh, the guilt on your face was delicious. Now you know how it feels.”

  The memory of Mikasa’s wide, hurt eyes flashed in Eren’s mind. The guilt, combined with the lack of air, created a surge of pure, desperate adrenaline. With his last ounce of strength, he bucked his knees up, driving them together into Armin’s stomach.

  The possessed boy gasped, the grip loosening just enough for Eren to wrench free, rolling away and coughing violently.

  “You… parasitic cockroach!” Eren spat, blood trickling from his mouth. “You can’t just die for once!”

  Zs’Skayr straightened up, smoothing down Armin’s shirt with a mocking gesture. “Cockroach? Look at the universe you infest, boy! Your very species is a host to a far more insidious parasite! You are all walking, talking cages for the Xerxathi! Do not lecture me on parasitism!”

  Eren’s glare never wavered, but his childish mind clung to that sentence in confusion. Xer-xati? This wasn’t the first time he had heard that word. It was like 6 months back prior when the omnitrix had-

  BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

  The sound interrupting Eren’s flow of thoughts was a lifeline. Green light replaced red. The Omnitrix symbol glowed brightly on Eren’s wrist.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Eren slammed the dial.

  A flash of light, and Inferno (Of course the omnitrix gives him what he wants now…classic) stood in Eren’s place. His rocky skin was dark in color, more like volcanic rock than bright magma, with two short, jagged horns curled from each side of his forehead. Flames wreathed his body, and his eyes were pools of white-hot fury.

  “Give him back!” Inferno’s voice was the roar of a forge. “Get out of my best friend’s head, you bastard!”

  Zs’Skayr actually chuckled, spreading Armin’s arms wide in a mocking invitation.

  “Or what? You’ll burn us both? You have no advantage here, child. The sun may kill me if I come out, but I won’t be the only one going down too you know.”

  Unease etched to the pyronite’s features. “…What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t realized by now have you child? Those things you call monsters. Every single one of them. Their bodies are unstable, riddled with my essence…My children. Without me to sustain them, the sunlight will reduce them to ash. From the incompetent officers to the frail children… all of them, dead. The only way to save them… is for me to live. And to do that, I need a new vessel. Your body. Stand down, and I will cure these… imperfections.” (N.B: I give him props, he’s a good gas lighter)

  The horror that washed over Eren was colder than any ice. He wasn’t just fighting for Armin anymore. He was being asked to sacrifice himself for the lives of his enemies, for the boy who tormented Armin, for the Warriors who destroyed his home. The weight was crushing.

  “NO!” The denial was a torrent of fire. A blast of plasma shot from his hand, going wide in his rage, and slammed into the distant barn. The dry wood ignited instantly, a new pyre against the dawn sky. “GET OUT OF HIM!”

  “So stubborn,” Zs’Skayr sighed, as if dealing with a temperamental child (He’s not lying to be honest). “Perhaps you need some enlightenment then.”

  Then, he demonstrated his ultimate cruelty. Armin’s hand began to change. The skin writhed, turning grey, the fingers elongating into claws, the veins bulging black…only for it to revert instantly to Armin’s boyish skin, then morphed again. It flickered between Armin’s hand and a thrall’s claw, in and out, a terrifying glimpse of a permanent, monstrous fate.

  “What will it be, Eren?” The voice was Armin’s, but the cadence was a serpent’s hiss, the words slithering from lips twisted into Zs’Skayr’s cruel smirk. “A quick, noble trade? Your body for his? Or shall I make your dear friend a permanent part of my collection?” Armin’s hand rose, and the flesh writhed, flickering grey, the fingers threatening to elongate into permanent claws.

  “He’ll make a fascinating thrall. All that brilliant strategy, warped into mindless hunger. Your hesitation is simply making the transformation more… painful. Besides, if you did do otherwise…his screams would echo like the others that would be joining me.”

  Eren stood frozen, the fiery form of Inferno flickering like a guttering candle. Every instinct screamed to attack, but the target was Armin’s heart. He saw the fear in his mother’s eyes, felt the ghost of Mikasa’s bruised wrist, witnessed Grandpa Arlet’s sacrifice all over again. To save them, he would have to destroy the person who made that salvation mean anything.

  “Face it, little vessel,” Zs’Skayr sneered, the patience vanishing from his voice, replaced by impetuous rage. “Your defiance is a child’s tantrum. All your running, your paltry plans… they have all led you here. To my absolute victory. You. Have. Lost.”

  The declaration was a physical blow. But it was the sight of Armin’s hand fully morphing into a grotesque, grey claw that shattered Eren’s paralysis. The cost of inaction became more terrifying than the cost of action. His glowing eyes dropped from Armin’s tormented face to the ground. There, amidst the scorched earth, lay the shattered remains of their extinguished hope; the Light Lance…or what remained of it.

  And within the wreckage, the Omnitrix-powered core still pulsed, a tiny, captive sun fighting to stay alive. Inferno could only remember what Armin’s grandpa had said a few hours prior.

  “This beauty’s from my Wrecker days. Channels pure sunlight, even in the dark. Zs’Skayr hates it, burns right through his kinds.”

  Burns…right through…

  An idea, horrific and brilliant, bloomed in his mind. It was a violation. A betrayal. It made him sick with guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Armin,” he whispered, a confession meant for his friend’s soul, wherever it was trapped. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Then, he moved. Inferno took a deliberate step forward.

  Zs’Skayr recoiled, Armin’s body stumbling back. The arrogance flickered, replaced by shock. “What is this? Stop! You wouldn’t dare harm him! His blood will be on your hands!”

  Eren didn’t answer. He knelt, his molten hand hovering over the broken core. He didn’t pick it up; he absorbed it. The pure, concentrated sunlight flowed into his fiery form, making his internal light blaze with a whiter, purer intensity. He stood, now a being of fire containing a minature core, and reached for Armin.

  “Stay back!” Zs’Skayr shrieked, genuine fear cracking his voice. He raised Armin’s clawed hand like a weapon. “I will unravel his mind! I will twist his body into a horror that will haunt your every waking moment!”

  A raw, agonized scream tore through the tension. A figure staggered into the clearing, his body; still marked by the thrall’s corruption; was smoking, the faint dawn light causing his skin to sizzle. His face was a contorted mask of pain and undiluted hatred. It was Bran.

  Zs’Skayr’s fear vanished, replaced by triumphant glee. “You! My child! Perfect timing! Restrain this incendiary fool! Hold him!” (Are you for real?)

  Bran’s eyes, clear and burning with a fury all his own, locked onto Zs’Skayr. “I’m not your damn child, you ghostfreak!” he roared, his voice a ragged tear. He didn’t even look at Eren. He launched himself at the possessed Armin, wrapping his arms in a desperate grapple.

  “No shame at all! Picking on the bookworm?! What’s wrong, the big bad ghost scared of a real fight?!”

  He wrestled with the stronger, possessed body, straining with every ounce of his will. “I’ve had enough of this shit!” Bran yelled, spitting blood. “I’ll end you myself!”

  “Get off me, you vermin!” With a snarl of annoyance, Zs’Skayr threw Bran off with a surge of telekinetic force. But as Bran hit the dirt, Eren moved taking his chance.

  He surged forward, his hands; searing hot but carefully controlled; clamped onto Armin’s arms. Zs’Skayr barley saw it coming.

  “What are you doing?!” Zs’Skayr screamed, struggling against the grip. “You cannot harm me without destroying him! How?!”

  Eren’s voice was low, a deadly calm over a roiling inferno. “Can’t I?...” he stated, his grip tightening, “Or won’t I?”

  He focused. He channeled the purifying sunlight he had absorbed, not as a blunt weapon, but as a precise, surgical tool. He sent a controlled, agonizing wave of searing light directly through Armin’s arms and into his bloodstream, flooding the boy’s body with the one thing the ectonurite essence could not endure.

  Armin’s body went rigid, then convulsed violently. A scream tore from his throat, a horrific duet of Armin’s raw pain and Zs’Skayr’s piercing, alien shriek of agony.

  “YOU MADMAN! LET GO OF ME!!! YOU ARE A MONSTER WORSE THAN I!” Zs’Skayr howled, feeling his very essence being scoured and burned from the inside out.

  “I’m just tired of your voice,” Eren growled, his resolve an unbreakable diamond. “It’s time for you to be silent.”

  Unable to withstand it, with a final, wet, tearing sound that seemed to rip the air itself, a wisp of solid black shadow was violently expelled from Armin’s chest. It was Zs’Skayr, his form frayed, withered, and half-dissipated from the internal purge.

  Eren didn’t give him a millisecond. His hand shot out and closed around the ectoplasmic substance of the Ectonurite’s head. His intense heat made the intangible solid. Then proceeded to slam the ectonurite brutally to the ground, his hand still holding the head.

  “No! This… this cannot be! My destiny…this isn’t how it’s supposed to end!” Zs’Skayr writhed, his single eye wide with a terror he had not known in millennia.

  “…On the contrary Zs’Skayr,” Eren said, his voice cold as the void between stars. His own fiery body was blocking the sun, which was a hair’s breadth from fully rising. He held the shrieking ghost up, casting him in a demonic silhouette. For one terrifying moment, all Zs’Skayr could see was the horned outline of Inferno against the blazing sky. All he could see…

  “I couldn’t have allowed this to end otherwise.”

  …Was the devil.

  Eren turned around and raised the Ecto-lord high.

  The sun crested the Wall, and the first, full, unadulterated ray of morning sunlight struck Zs’Skayr. His screech reached an impossible pitch. His form smoked, then ignited, burning with a silent, violet flame. He thrashed for a moment in Eren’s unforgiving grip, and then, like a piece of paper in a bonfire, he was consumed. An unholy shriek escaped the burning ghost’s body like misplaced melodies, but Eren held still.

  His final scream was not just a sound; it was the dissolution of a consciousness. But as the light vaporized him, his mind was flooded with a final, stolen vision; a crashing wave of memories from the Attack Titan’s legacy, fragments of time itself he had glimpses of while he had tried to take hold of Eren’s body.

  The images of him using Eren’s body as he made his army crumbled to dust…

  Visons of him bending civilizations of several planets vaporized…

  And the last, searing image before eternal nothingness claimed him was not of the boy, but of the man.

  An older Eren Yeager no doubt, standing in a vast, alien expanse of sand and light, his eyes glowing with ancient, murderous green fire, stared down at Zs’Skayr’s fading essence with a hatred that transcended time itself.

  How coincidental the two had said the same thing to him, remembering the conversation he had with the man and what his present, younger self had promised to him a few hours ago…

  ‘When it's finally time for you to die... my face will be the last thing you see. I'll make sure of it.’

  Even in his final moment, Zs’Skayr couldn’t help but mirthlessly chuckle in his head.

  A monster defeated by a greater monster. How unruly, yet…fitting…

  Zs’Skay turned to ash, and the ash dissipated on the morning breeze.

  _______________

  Trost district…

  The tension at the gate was a taut wire about to snap. Rifles trembled, aimed at former thralls and fellow soldiers alike. Rolf’s wild eyes darted between Hannes and the monstrous-looking civilians.

  “I’m telling you, they’re faking!” Rolf screeched, finger tight on the trigger.

  A collective, shuddering gasp went through the crowd of thralls, interrupting the tension within the air. A faint, ethereal grey vapor seemed to wisp out of their pores, rising from their greyish skin and dissolving in the morning air. As it left them, the horrifying transformations reversed in a wave of silent, unnatural biology. Grey skin paled to a sickly but human tone. Black veins faded. Unhinged jaws snapped back into place with soft, sickening pops.

  The violet light in their eyes didn’t just vanish; it was extinguished. One by one, they collapsed, not in death, but in utter, bone-deep exhaustion, sobbing in relief and confusion.

  The Garrisons stared, their weapons lowering slowly. The threat was just… gone.

  “What… what happened?” Stefan whispered, his rifle clattering to the cobblestones.

  Hannes didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were fixed beyond the gate, past the recovering refugees, towards the distant, smoking ruin of the refugee camp where the colossal fire had blazed. He saw the first true rays of the sun illuminating the devastation.

  A slow, weary, but profound smile touched his lips. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, who was responsible for that sunrise.

  “Eren,” he breathed, the name a prayer of thanks and exhaustion.

  Elsewhere…

  Grandpa Arlet winced as he finished tying a makeshift bandage around his ribs. The pain was excruciating, but it was a familiar, mortal pain. He looked down at the collapsed form of the colossal thrall near him. And the other kid had disappeared to walls knows where.

  …Great.

  A sudden, massive shift drew their attention. The hulking, monstrous form of Bertholdt’s thrall began to steam violently. It was not Titan steam; this was a darker, shadowy mist that boiled away into nothing. The form shrank, the ectoplasmic enhancements receding like a nightmare fading upon waking, until all that was left was the tall, lanky, and unconscious form of Bertholdt Hoover, lying battered on the ground.

  Grandpa Arlet stared, then let out a long, shaky sigh that carried the weight of the entire horrific night. The psychic pressure, the cold presence of the Ectonurite, was gone. Truly gone.

  “It’s over,” he muttered, the words feeling inadequate for the relief they brought.

  His eyes, however, lingered on Bertholdt. They weren’t filled with hate, but with a deep, weary, and cryptic knowing. He saw the boy, but his mind’s eye saw something else. He knew what this child was. And the knowledge was a heavier burden than any wound.

  “What to do with you, nuke of Marley…”

  Elsewhere as well…

  Mikasa’s blades were still in her hand, her body poised over the unconscious, armored thrall. Annie stood a few feet away, clutching her broken arm, her expression unreadable.

  Then, the massive form shuddered. The violet light died, and the armor plates seemed to lose their sinister aura, becoming mere warped flesh that then melted away into steam. In seconds, the monster was gone, replaced by the familiar, muscular form of Reiner Braun, unconscious and breathing raggedly.

  Annie didn’t rush to his side. But after a moment’s hesitation, she limped forward and knelt. It wasn’t an act of affection, but one of grim, professional assessment. She checked his pulse, her fingers brushing against a nasty cut on his temple. A minuscule fraction of the tension left her shoulders. He was alive. He was himself.

  Mikasa didn’t move. Her gaze was turned away, towards the east, towards the heart of the camp where the final battle had taken place. The early morning sun, now fully risen, painted the devastated refugee camp in a soft, golden light, illuminating the destruction but also burning away the lingering shadows of the night.

  Annie followed her gaze, then looked down at Reiner. “They really did it, didn’t they?” she mumbled, the words barely audible.

  Mikasa gave a single, slow nod. “Yes, they did…”

  Her stoic expression softened for a fleeting second, her lips moving silently, forming two names against the dawn light.

  Eren. Armin…

  Around them, in the deep irrigation ditches, confused and weak cries began to rise. The thralls trapped within were also reverting, their nightmare ending at the same moment.

  _________________

  Eren’s fingers remained firm, holding into the last wisp of black ash that began dissolving around his fiery digits, carried away on a dawn breeze that smelled of smoke and dry earth. There was no final scream, no grand explosion. Just… nothing. A profound, deafening silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and Eren’s own ragged breaths.

  A sharp, familiar BEEP-BEEP-BEEP echoed in the quiet. The Omnitrix symbol on his chest glowed red. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to slam the dial down himself. The device had simply… finished. The fight was so over that even the watch had given up.

  He had reverted back at some point. He didn’t remember the flash of green, didn’t feel the alien form recede. One moment he was Inferno, holding a god to the sun, the next he was just Eren Yeager, ten years old, on his knees in the dirt.

  The strength that had sustained him; the rage, the desperation, the sheer, stubborn will; vanished as if Zs’Skayr had taken it with him. A hollow numbness flooded in to fill the void. It was a feeling deeper than exhaustion, a cold emptiness where his emotions should have been.

  His gaze, blank and unfocused, drifted to the side. Bran lay a few feet away, groaning. The greyish tint of his skin was fading, the last remnants of the thrall’s corruption evaporating like morning dew under the now-fully-risen sun. He was turning back, just like all the others. Eren felt… nothing. No relief, no satisfaction. Just a distant acknowledgment that another nightmare was ending.

  The sound seemed to pull him from the depths of his numbness. A tremor started in his hands, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that quickly spread through his entire body. He pushed himself up, his legs feeling like water, and stumbled the short distance to where Armin lay.

  Armin was pale, so pale he looked like a ghost himself. But he was breathing. Soft, shallow breaths that fogged slightly in the cool morning air. The violent purple cracks around his eyes were gone. He was just Armin. His best friend…that he had HURT.

  Eren collapsed beside him, his own strength giving out completely. He didn’t say anything. He just gathered Armin’s limp form into his arms, pulling his friend’s head onto his lap. He held him tightly, as if afraid he would vanish too. The contact was the only thing that felt real.

  “It’s over…” Eren whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looked around at the scorched field, the smoldering barn, the evidence of a battle that had felt like the end of the world.

  “It’s… really over.”

  But the words rang hollow. Because as the silence stretched, a different, more terrible truth began to seep through the cracks in his numbness, cold and accusing.

  This was my fault.

  The thought wasn’t a shout; it was a quiet, insidious whisper that echoed in the hollow space inside him.

  ALL of it.

  He saw the MP’s body in the irrigation ditch; his hands, moved by Zs’Skayr, but his body nonetheless.

  He saw Mikasa’s bruised wrist.

  He saw the horror in his mother’s eyes.

  He saw Grandpa Arlet, broken and bleeding, sacrificing himself.

  He saw the entire camp thrown into a night of terror, people turned into monsters, all because he couldn’t control the power on his wrist. All because he was weak. All because he was…afraid.

  The Omnitrix felt heavy on his wrist, no longer a symbol of power, but a brand of guilt. He had won. He had saved everyone. But he was the one who had put them in danger in the first place.

  He held Armin closer, tears he didn’t know he had left beginning to well up and fall, dripping onto his best friend’s peaceful, unconscious face. The victory was bittersweet, tainted by a shame so profound it threatened to drown him.

  Zs’Skayr was gone. Erased.

  It was over. The night of terror had ended…

  …but what about the haunting feeling in his chest?

  Alien countdown: Heatblast (Inferno), Wildmutt (Savage), Fourarms (Titanfist), Ghostfreak (Phantom), Diamondhead (Obsidian), Greymatter (Cerebrus), Eyeguy (???), Stinkfly (Buzzrot), XLR8 (Blitz), Upgrade (Overhaul).

  Chapter 19-30 are already available for as low as $3 on P a tre on . com (slash) Weeb Fanthom.