Smoke blanketed the sky in thick, choking waves. Ash drifted down like snow. Screams echoed from the burning mouths of buildings. And the titans—so many titans—moved through Trost like a plague, each footfall cracking stone, each breath a horror.
The Garrison was in shambles. The wall was breached.
And the cadets—so many of them—were just children with blades far too heavy and hearts not ready to understand what dying looked like up close.
"You! Kid! What the hell do you think you're doing, lounging around?!"
A grizzled Garrison veteran grabbed a fifteen-year-old cadet by the collar. The boy's eyes were wide with tears and smoke, frozen at the edge of a rooftop.
"The wall… it's gone… it just stepped through—"
"If the titans don't kill you, she will," the man barked, dragging him toward the rally point.
Because "she" had become something of a whispered myth now.
A storm on legs.
A reaper in red.
And then—
She landed.
A silver streak tore through the air—ODM wires hissing, steel boots slamming onto broken stone. She hit the ground in a crouch—controlled, silent, lethal.
Captain Beatrice Dalca. Her shoulder-length white hair was soaked with sweat, blood, and ash. Her uniform, darkened by titan gore, bore the crimson crest of the Garrison. But no one—no one—believed she was just Garrison anymore. Her tinted goggles glinted as she stood upright, towering with poise, authority.
"School circle." The command cracked like thunder. Dozens of cadets and panicked soldiers snapped to attention before they even realised they were obeying.
"The main Garrison force takes the vanguard. Cadets—you're middle guard. Comms and evac only. You run, you die."
Her voice was calm. Unshakeable.
"My elites are posted as rear guard at the North Gate. Civilian priority." She scanned the terrified faces. All of them.
But stopped at one.
"Mikasa Ackermann. With me."
Mikasa stiffened. But obeyed.
Beatrice's eyes swept the group once more. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"Desertion is a capital offence. Disobey orders, and I will be your last enemy." Then she was gone.
Just a blur.
A streak of death and wind.
The sky above the North Gate was on fire. Titans poured in from the breach like water through a shattered dam. And in the center of it—her.
Spinning.
Diving.
Killing.
Beatrice Dalca ripped through titan necks like wind through wheat. Her ODM gear whistled around her, precise and deadly. She didn't scream. She didn't speak. She didn't hesitate. A blur of white hair and blood-red steel.
Three titans in ten seconds.
Four.
Five.
Blood streaked down her jaw.
Steam hissed around her like fog. Inside, she was burning. Her squad was down to half. The gates wouldn't hold.
And still—She fought. Not to win. But to keep moving.
From behind a collapsing watchtower, Lieutenant Dahmous dropped beside a group of exhausted cadets. Blood stained his uniform. His chest heaved.
"Has anyone seen the Captain?!"
A private shook his head, pale.
"East Gate's lost! Squad 34's gone—depot's compromised! We're almost out of gas!"
Dahmous turned, desperate. And then he saw her.
Beatrice. Midair. Alone. Unstoppable. Slashing through a titan's throat with terrifying grace. He reached for his flare—but hesitated.
No. Not yet.
Instead, he cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed:
"Captain! Please—be careful!"
She didn't stop. Didn't even flinch.
"We'll hold this!" Dahmous yelled again. "They need you more at the North Gate! The people follow you!"
Her boots slammed onto a titan's shoulder. She embedded her blade in its nape. Landed. Turned. Blood dripped from her armour.
Her voice was low. Steel.
"Then hold this line."
She reloaded her blades in a single flick.
"I'll make sure we don't bury any more children today."
And then she vanished into the smoke.
By evening, the last civilians had been pulled behind the second gate. The breach still burned. The Garrison's numbers were halved.
But the cadets? Alive. Most of them.
And as they collapsed in the dust, crying, holding each other, someone whispered a name. Then another. Then another.
"She saved us."
"She didn't stop."
"She didn't even blink."
And Beatrice? She stood atop the wall, goggles pushed up onto her forehead, eyes bloodshot and unseeing. Her armour was slick with gore. Her blades were ruined. Her hair, usually so white, was now tangled with soot, blood, and ash.
She didn't smile. Didn't speak.
She just stared into the dusk.
Breathing.
Alive.
And in her hand—curled so tightly the knuckles had turned white—a necklace.