Chapter 2
The trees trembled, and the sky was veiled in a gray cloud of titan steam. The earth shook beneath the weight of their heavy steps, as if bracing itself for an inevitable catastrophe.
Alone, Vig Ackerman stood still—his breath rising in the cold air, hands gripping the handles of his ODM gear, as if he were the last flicker of humanity's hope.
In front of him, over twenty-five titans advanced from all directions. Twisted faces, half-open mouths, empty eyes, and uneven gaits—but all shared one thing: hunger… and purpose.
Vig closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Then opened them, as if something had ignited within.
And he moved.
He fired his grappling hooks toward a massive tree and soared through the air like a loosed arrow. In the blink of an eye, he veered right, dodging a titan's reaching hand, then dove for its nape, his blade slicing through the wind—
One clean strike, and the titan fell.
There was no time to pause. Another titan lunged from behind—faster than expected. Vig turned just in time, swung around a tree trunk, shifted direction midair, and launched above the titan's head—
A precise slash to the back of the neck—down it went.
Two down.
Then a third… a fourth…
The fifth he injured with a slash to the leg while circling it, forcing Vig to land heavily on the ground. But he didn't stop.
His blades were extensions of his arms.
His gear pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Blood sprayed the air. Titan screams echoed through the forest.
He fought with a grace beyond description—leaping from titan to titan as if dancing on death itself. Each time one fell, another appeared. He twisted, spun, glided between tree trunks, maneuvering through the sky with the confidence of someone who had seen hundreds of battles.
But… even the best bleed.
After taking down the tenth titan, a smaller, faster one caught him off guard—grabbing his right leg midair. A sharp cry tore from Vig's throat as he quickly severed the grappling line, sending himself crashing to the ground before being crushed. He rolled across the grass, blood smearing his uniform from his wounded leg.
He stood again, pressing hard on his thigh.
"There's still more…" he muttered between ragged breaths.
He launched another hook and soared toward a two-headed titan crawling from the bushes. He circled above it, then used the sunlight to descend with a lethal strike from above—
A clean cut.
But a titan ambushed him from the side. If he hadn't noticed at the last second, he would have been crushed between its jaws. He escaped—barely—but not unscathed.
A large splinter tore through his right arm as he propelled himself from tree to tree.
Blood now covered his body. His breath grew heavier. Each move slower.
But he didn't stop.
Eleven… fifteen… twenty…
And with each fallen titan, another part of him broke. A wound to the shoulder, a blow to the chest, a cut to the forehead—but he never retreated.
At last, after the twenty-fifth titan had fallen, and the sun began to sink behind the trees, Vig stood alone in the clearing, wrapped in silence.
The titans… had all vanished.
His arm dropped.
His blades fell from his hands.
He dropped to his knees.
Blood poured from his shoulder, thigh, side. A deep gash marred his face.
He hadn't lost consciousness—
But he couldn't move.
He looked up to the sky, breathing slowly…
And smiled.
The smile of a man who fought to the very end…
And refused to die before finishing what he started.
Vig Ackerman's body collapsed as if it had become part of the earth itself…
Still. Motionless. But not dead.
Not yet.
Blood poured from dozens of wounds—some deep enough to reveal bone, others torn beyond description.
His shredded uniform barely clung to his battle-worn frame, stained with ash and the remnants of war.
The air around him was suffocating.
The scent—death, steam, and evaporating blood.
But the sky was clear.
A silver moon cast its light upon him—calm and quiet, as if mourning a body too tired to keep fighting.
Vig opened his eyes with great effort, gazing at the sky as if it were a distant dream.
Everything was quiet now…
The silence that comes before departure.
"Is it over…?"
He whispered inwardly, his voice barely audible.
His face, pale as snow—not from purity, but from the blood that had left him.
The cold crept into his limbs, slowly… like invisible hands drawing life from within.
But he wasn't thinking about death.
No… only now did he remember something—
Something important.
With a trembling hand, he reached toward his neck, where a small pendant hung beneath his torn uniform.
He pulled it out… slowly… holding it tightly, as if it were the most precious thing he had left.
He opened it.
Inside were two small photographs.
In the first:
He stood with a calm smile under the daylight. Beside him was his wife, Arya, and in her arms was their young son, Ryo, barely six years old, laughing with a pure innocence, unaware of the world's cruelty.
In the second:
Only Arya and Ryo.
He looked at the first photo…
Then smiled.
His lips trembled…
A tear slid down his right eye, followed by another.
And then… he began to cry.
It wasn't the cry of fear—
It was the ache of a father who knew he was leaving.
In a broken voice, barely escaping his dry throat, he whispered:
"Arya… Ryo… forgive me… I won't be there when you need me…"
Vig didn't want to die.
He was the soldier who faced everything without fear.
But now, there was one fear in his heart:
To leave without goodbye.
To abandon them to emptiness.
He tightened his grip on the pendant—
As if it were the only thing keeping him from letting go.
But his body betrayed him.
His pulse weakened.
His vision blurred.
And death approached.
With one final breath, just before the moonlight faded from his eyes,
He whispered softly:
"Ryo… be stronger than me… I hope you fulfill my dream of uncovering the truth of this world…"
And then he closed his eyes.
His hand still clutching the pendant—
With th
e strength of someone who didn't want to go—
But fate had spoken.
Vig's soul faded from this world… like every soul that reaches its end.
To be continued …