For a while now, I've been asking myself an interesting question.
Does death exist?
It sounds like a stupid question.
Too basic.
Too human.
But put yourselves in my position.
The only real interaction I ever had with death was... insignificant.
A point of transition.
A weightless instant.
And immediately after, another life.
No darkness.
No judgment.
No rest.
Only continuity.
That forced me to reconsider everything.
We're all like that, aren't we?
We live convinced that death is the absolute end, when in reality it's the only event no one can give an honest testimony of.
"While we exist, death is not present; and when death is present, we no longer exist."
An elegant sentence.
Comforting.
Useless.
Because it doesn't answer the right question.
Death isn't a logical problem.
It's a psychological one.
Humanity doesn't fear death.
It fears interruption.
It fears ceasing to matter.
It fears the world continuing on without registering its absence.
And yet...
humanity clings to that movement as if it were sacred.
I've read Camus.
"The only serious philosophical problem is suicide," he said.
Deciding whether life is worth living or not.
I disagree.
Suicide isn't a question.
It's an emotional conclusion.
The real question is another one:
Is it worth continuing to exist when one no longer wishes to exist?
Most people don't live.
They keep themselves busy.
They work.
They reproduce.
They consume.
They distract themselves.
Not to avoid death,
but to avoid facing the void that already exists before it.
Life doesn't lack meaning because it ends.
It ends because it never had one.
Meaning is an artificial byproduct.
A survival mechanism.
Nietzsche understood that better than anyone:
"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how."
That's why religions work.
That's why ideologies persist.
That's why people need to feel useful, necessary, chosen.
They don't want to live.
They want to justify being alive.
Death, by comparison, is simple.
Silent.
Efficient.
It doesn't punish.
It doesn't reward.
It doesn't teach.
It only removes.
That's why I find it curious that humanity sees it as its greatest fear,
when in reality it's the only certainty that demands nothing in return.
Living, on the other hand, is a constant negotiation.
With others.
With the system.
With oneself.
Maybe that's why I don't fear death.
Not because I'm brave,
but because I already lived in a place where existing meant nothing.
And if death is merely the total absence of meaning...
then it isn't that different from the life many already live.
"It's not that I think life lacks meaning...
it's that meaning doesn't exist inherently."
My eyes move slowly from the blond man to the bald one, giving both the same measure of attention.
"Meaning is not a property of life.
It's a tool."
Pixis tilts his head slightly, intrigued.
Erwin doesn't look away.
"Most people believe meaning comes first... and action follows.
But it's the other way around."
I lace my fingers together.
"We act first.
And only afterward do we invent a reason acceptable enough to live with it."
I finish speaking, leaning back in my chair.
"That's my opinion, in short."
I exhale slowly and take another sip of tea.
The liquid is lukewarm. Characterless. Like almost everything meant to comfort.
Saying all of this out loud, in front of people who never had access to those authors, those ideas, probably makes me seem more exceptional than I really am.
Not because I am.
Throughout history, men from different eras — kings, soldiers, philosophers, fanatics — reached similar conclusions using completely different languages.
I simply had the advantage of having read all of them.
Fortunately, I also have the ability to adapt my words to my audience.
"I suppose I understand..."
The blond man leans back in his chair.
With some difficulty, using his only arm, he lifts his teacup and takes a small sip.
His expression carries that calmness—
"In fact..." he continues, his voice low and firm, "it's a rather honest conclusion."
He raises his gaze to meet mine.
"When I was younger, I believed meaning came before everything else."
His eyes drift toward the floor.
"Before death. Before thoughts. Before decisions... We all arrived here carrying that belief."
He pauses.
"Looking at it now..."
"I think it was just a way of not accepting that my father died meaninglessly."
...
"I believed that if I found a truth large enough..."
"...then every sacrifice would make sense on its own."
An absolute truth that fits everything, huh?
I have to give you credit — arriving at that idea with how limited philosophical progress is in this world...
He takes a deep breath.
"...and, to be honest, I still think that way."
Pixis lets out a soft "fufu," clearly amused.
"This really is an interesting conversation."
He takes another relaxed sip of his drink.
"I'll make sure to pay closer attention to you from now on, Kiyotaka."
He inclines his head slightly.
"Now I understand the interest Erwin has in you."
"Don't you have an opinion, Pixis?" I look directly at him for a few seconds.
He leans back in his chair, wearing that calm smile that never quite reveals whether he's joking or being serious.
"Mmm... not really." He laughs heartily.
"I never took the time to seriously think about that sort of thing."
He raises his cup.
"Honestly, I'm pretty simple."
"Life doesn't bother me much as long as I can die next to a beautiful woman, but..."
His smile fades slightly.
His gaze returns to me, more serious.
"In this world, I'd rather think like you do, Kiyotaka."
He sets the cup down on the table.
"Because otherwise... it would mean we came here with a predetermined reason."
His voice drops even lower.
"And I can't think of a single one that isn't suffering."
He pauses.
"Even with its good and bad moments..."
"...this world is truly horrible."
...
-----------------------------------
"Nina... continue."
"Very well. I will now relay Commander Erwin's orders."
The young woman raises a stack of papers in front of her face. Not to read them — she knows them by heart — but as an automatic, almost defensive gesture. Her voice loses any trace of warmth and becomes straight, firm, heavy with a gravity that fills the room.
"The plan will begin the moment Eren and Historia are handed over by the Reiss Corporation to the Military Police. Since the Military Police has fully delegated both the route and the rest stops to the Reiss Corporation, we will take advantage of that."
A faint murmur ripples through the room.
As Nina continues explaining, I allow my thoughts to move ahead. Erwin always builds his plans on absurdly simple foundations. So simple that most people overlook them. And that, precisely, is his greatest strength.
It may sound foolish to explain it this way, but the entire strategy rests on an elementary truth: we hold the absolute advantage — at least enough to force a stalemate.
Their conditions for victory are clear, rigid, visible even to a child: obtain Eren Jaeger and Historia Reiss.
Ours?
A deliberate void.
They don't know what we want.
They don't know how far we're willing to go.
They don't know what we're willing to sacrifice.
And most importantly, they don't know who is truly on their side.
From their perspective, the Reiss Corporation and I are aligned with the Military Police. That assumption is the pillar supporting all of their movements. And a flawed pillar always collapses.
That makes the board surprisingly comfortable.
Not because victory is near.
They advance convinced they have the upper hand. They believe they've anticipated our movements. They believe they're one step ahead.
But that's the mistake.
Because while they believe they're one step ahead...
we've already moved two.
"We will hand Eren and Historia over to the Military Police... then, through the Reiss Corporation, we will follow their trail to its final destination... the final destination refers to—"
"Rod Reiss, Historia's biological father and the highest authority within the walls," she pauses to display a photograph of the man. "According to the prisoners we interrogated, all high-ranking officers are under his command."
...
...
"By capturing him, ideally we'll have something to sit down and negotiate with."
The sentence doesn't sound like a threat.
Nor like a plea.
It's a cold, almost administrative statement.
"At the very least, we'll be able to have a real discussion."
"Why the need to fight? Why can't we work together to eradicate the threat of the Titans?"
Calm settles over Erwin's features with an unsettling naturalness.
There is no anger in his expression, no trace of fear. Only a heavy stillness.
Erwin spreads the papers across the table, showing them first to Pixis... and then to me. Reports, routes, political decisions carefully disguised as security measures. Lies arranged with meticulous cleanliness.
"Our ignorance is evident."
The phrase emerges from somewhere in the room, unintentionally mimicking the same seriousness Erwin usually carries. Pixis voices it with complete honesty, his tone cold.
"Yes..." Erwin replies, lowering his head for just an instant. "Our ignorance is."
Then he raises his gaze.
And with that simple motion, the entire room seems to shrink.
"But when it comes to abandoning us and the people... to banning travel beyond the walls... to deliberately hindering technological progress..."
He pauses.
"If you can give us a convincing explanation for that, then we will listen."
The silence becomes unbearable.
"And if such an explanation exists..." he continues, "...then it will be you who withdraw."
Pixis adds quietly,
"Yes... perhaps we'll be the ones who lose everything."
Erwin clenches his fist and strikes his chest once.
"I would love that to be the case," he says, his voice low but firm. "I would love to be wrong."
He lifts his head once more.
"But until the answer is clear... until someone has the courage to tell us the truth..."
His tone hardens.
"Even if it turns out to be a fatal mistake, we will continue moving forward based on our values."
A final pause.
"And our ideology."
Pure.
A genuine, almost absurd loyalty to his people.
Great leaders throughout history would be overshadowed by this man. I don't say that lightly. His mere presence is enough to pull wills together, to turn fear into determination and doubt into obedience. Of that, I'm certain.
But I cannot allow that variable to exist.
I already know the answer they'll give you, Erwin. Even before you open your mouth. I'm almost certain that, for you, it will NOT be enough. Perhaps it will be for some within the Scout Regiment.
Unfortunately, I cannot accept that.
Too many years of work converge at this point. Too many pieces moved in silence, too many decisions made without room for error. It would be a real shame to lose everything over something as trivial as ideals... or blind faith in a cause.
The seeds I planted should be enough to tilt the balance slightly. I don't need everything to collapse—just to shift enough. A discreet push, almost imperceptible, but irreversible.
Still, relying on such a flawed plan...
Even if your strategic ability is top-tier for this world, it remains clumsy. Too human. Too trusting that people will do the right thing simply because they believe in it.
And that, Erwin, is precisely the problem.
-----------
I truly appreciate having such freedom of movement.
Something I earned genuinely, through merit—not favors or coincidence.
In the end, every place tends to run on meritocracy... at least at certain levels. Enough of them.
At least I'm on time.
If I'm not mistaken, I should have a margin of about eight hours. More than enough, considering the nighttime work I'm already doing.
KNOCK—KNOCK... KNOCK... KNOCK—KNOCK...
I knock on the door with my knuckles, imitating an exact pattern. Too long to be casual. Too precise to be improvised.
"You're quite late, Enrick," a voice says from the other side. "You were supposed to bring the report hours ago."
The door opens.
A girl with short hair, a strange fringe. Pretty, in a simple way. She holds a rifle against her chest, almost like a talisman. Her relaxed expression gives away her position: Military Police guard. She believes she's safe.
Before her eyes can fully focus on me... I'm already behind her.
My fingers wrap around her neck. A clean pull. Precise. The sound is brief, wet. Her trachea gives way under the pressure like soaked paper. There's no scream—only a pathetic attempt to breathe something that no longer exists.
I help her down to the floor carefully, almost gently, making sure her body doesn't hit the ground.
Using rifles in confined spaces has always seemed stupid to me. Even if the poor girl had reacted, even if she had raised her weapon... she never would have had the time or angle to aim at me.
I shake my head, more out of habit than disappointment.
I just hope this doesn't take too long.
Right now, I'm at the center of everything. One mistake here would cause something... inconvenient for me.
After all, this is the government printing press.
My senses pick up footsteps approaching from the hallway to the right. Irregular rhythm. Nervous.
A young man barely peeks around the corner. His eyes widen as he realizes something is wrong. He doesn't even manage to form a word.
My palm slams into his jaw.
The crunch is dry. Final. His mouth deforms instantly as the bone shifts out of place. The scream dies in his throat.
With a simple leg sweep, I send him to the floor. Before his brain can process the fall, my knife is already descending.
I drive it into the side of his head.
His body twitches for a fraction of a second, then goes still.
I stand up casually, brushing some dust from my clothes.
Mistake.
Fresh blood slides across the fabric, further ruining the uniform. I look at the stain without irritation—only mild, practical disappointment.
What a shame.
I really liked this uniform.
I glance at the young man's body. Similar build. Acceptable measurements.
At least I can use his.
I don't waste time.
I open the last door.
The space opens abruptly before me.
A large rectangular hall, high ceilings supported by wooden beams darkened with soot. Rows of rudimentary manual printing presses occupy the center—massive iron machines breathing with a constant, mechanical rhythm. The repetitive pounding of metal against paper fills the air like an artificial heart, driven precisely by a handful of men.
The smell is unmistakable:
thick ink, damp paper, industrial oil.
This is the heart of information.
The government printing press.
Dozens of civilians work in relative silence. Typesetters, binders, assistants. Ordinary men and women with ink-stained hands, focused on their routines. Some laugh quietly, others argue over minor errors. None of them expect to die today.
When I enter, the sound of my footsteps doesn't stand out.
Not yet.
I'm just another uniformed figure.
Another shadow among many.
My eyes scan the place with clinical speed. Exits. Heights. Columns. Work rhythms.
And then I spot her.
The last guard.
Standing beside the main distribution table, a short shotgun resting against her thigh. Rigid posture. Tense jaw. She's not like the others.
She's alert.
Our eyes meet.
She doesn't recognize my face.
And that's enough.
Her hand moves slightly toward the weapon. No panic. Well trained.
Too late.
I take a step forward.
The pressure changes.
The air seems to grow heavy.
"Who are you...?" she starts, pointing the gun directly at me.
I raise my hands slowly, controlling every gesture. Open posture. Harmless.
But my eyes betray me. Empty. Dead. Too calm.
I don't hesitate.
"Dennis Eibringer, Sixth Guard Squad," I reply, flat and proper.
Her eyes tremble slightly.
She doesn't believe me.
Unfortunate how I keep being seen as a child, isn't it?
I lunge forward.
I duck just enough. The shot thunders through the warehouse.
The impact is brutal. The pellets tear through my left arm, ripping it apart into a shapeless mass of flesh and blood that flies aside.
I don't scream.
I don't stop.
I use the recoil to close the distance.
Before she can fire again, my shoulder crashes into her torso. The shotgun falls. My knee strikes the inside of her thigh, breaking her balance instantly. With a simple, almost lazy motion, I force her to the ground.
My knee presses into her back.
My remaining hand clamps onto her wrist and twists until the weapon slides away.
She gasps, tries to turn her head... and then she sees my arm.
Or what's left of it.
Blood pours onto the floor, mixing with spilled ink. The metallic smell fills the air.
The civilians watch in absolute silence. No one screams. No one moves. Some instinctively step back. Others remain frozen, unable to comprehend how someone can keep moving like this.
"Don't resist," I say calmly. "It won't change anything."
I restrain her easily. A rope. A few quick knots. Mechanical precision, one-handed.
She trembles—not from pain, but from pure, primal fear.
I stand.
The blood keeps falling...
and then, it stops.
Not a spectacular regeneration like Eren's.
Simply—by some quiet impossibility—a perfectly healthy arm appears where the stump was.
In seconds, where there had been a bleeding ruin, there is now a clean, functional arm. As if it had never been destroyed.
I flex my fingers once.
Then again.
The civilians recoil in unison.
Someone covers their mouth.
Another person collapses to their knees without realizing it.
Some run toward the doors... perfectly locked.
I look at my arm with indifference.
Then lift my gaze.
"Thank you, Ymir..." I murmur.
There's no response. There never is.
I walk slowly toward the center of the hall, letting everyone see me. Letting them measure the distance between themselves and the inevitable.
"Now..." I say, my tone even, almost kind, "let me inform you that all exits are blocked."
I stop.
I observe them one by one. Ink-stained faces. Trembling hands. Eyes searching for permission to exist one second longer.
"So... who wants to live?"
The silence becomes unbearable.
I'd like to say that thinking about this tears me apart.
That something in my chest tightens, hesitates, resists.
But it doesn't.
None of them will survive.
Not after seeing this.
And I think they understand that—even if they can't accept it yet.
This isn't gratuitous cruelty.
It's necessity.
The future of humanity will change because of this.
A printing press isn't just paper and ink: it's memory, it's the official version, it's manufactured truth. And truths, when they're born, always demand blood.
Isn't that what defines death in this world?
Isn't that the price that makes survivors happy?
I look at them again.
Are you happy?
Die with a smile.
I'll do what so many in this world do: carry the corpses on my back and keep walking while others applaud my determination, my sacrifice, my "will."
Isn't that right, Erwin?
Is there really any difference?
Dying for ideals of people you never knew.
Dying to uphold a narrative that was never yours.
Why, in my case, is it evil... and in others, heroism?
I place a hand on my chest—not out of emotion, but habit.
The right words always require a pause.
I recall an old verse, buried in some useless corner of my memory:
"Abandon all hope,
ye who enter here."
Nothing remains standing.
It never does.
Empires collapse, statues turn to dust, and yet we keep calling it "noble" to die for something that will disappear anyway.
The difference between a martyr and a monster isn't the act.
It's who writes the history afterward.
I take another step.
My boots echo like a final gavel.
I don't ask you to understand me.
Only to accept something before you die.
You aren't important. You never were.
But your deaths... are.
In the grand scheme of things, you're just thirty-four workers in a printing press.
At least I could be called merciful. I promise I won't harm the families of those who help me publish what I want.
As for the others?
I doubt it would take me long to kill their families.
The silence is no longer fear.
It's resignation.
This world needs people willing to dirty their hands...
and carry that weight without closing their eyes.
Like me.
In a way, I'm not killing you.
I'm saving you.
----------------------------------
HEYYYY, it's KIYOKASU, your favorite writer, back again!
Well... I hope you enjoyed the chapter!!!
Honestly, I couldn't come up with an appropriate title, so I'd like to let you decide. The best idea that appears in the comments over the next 3 days will become the new title.
Anyway... THIS IS MY CHRISTMAS GIFT TO YOU ALL, so enjoy it!!!
Happy holidays to everyone—sending all my love to you all.
Love you,
Kiyokasu ❤️🎄