Attack on Titan — "Hundredfold"
Chapter 2: The Sky Is Not E
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Morning broke on Trost with the color of unfired clay, an anemic sun pushing light through charcoal-grey steam. Leon Ackerman jogged toward the southern wall-gate at a pace that would have left horses lathered; even so, impatient energy rattled inside him like chain-shot.
The Hundredfold Core scrolled status lines in the corner of his vision:
Strength … 100 × Armored Titan benchmark ✔
Agility … 100 × ODM captain tier ✔
Charisma … 2000 % baseline ✔
Strain Buffer … 6 % (rising)
Recovery Window … 23:00 – 24:00
Every step, every heartbeat, every micro-stretch of tendon kept compounding power—and debt.
Beyond Trost's inner gate, a ragged infantry column formed a cordon around shell-shocked refugees. Leon spotted Mikasa distributing bread, her scarf snapping in the restless wind. Historia poured water from a dented kettle while Ymir heckled anyone who tried to skip the queue. Farther off, Hange Zoë argued with a quartermaster, gesturing wildly toward a wagon stacked with spare blades.
And above all, the Wall loomed—fifty metres of granite hope, gouged by earlier artillery and peppered with steaming divots where errant Titan fists had landed in the night.
A whistle cut the murmur. Instructor Keith Shadis climbed a crate, face carved from sleepless stone.
"Verify your gas, check your blades, and remember your training." His voice cracked once, recovered. "I won't lie—many of you will die today. Make sure your deaths buy time for the civilians behind you."
A hushed "Yes, sir," rippled through the cadets. Leon stepped forward. Eyes turned—dozens of them—and the Charisma metric spiked. He hadn't intended to speak, but words rose anyway.
"Look around," he said. "We stand between monsters and families. If you fear dying, focus on living long enough to matter. Every Titan that falls today is a hundred lives tomorrow." He met gaze after gaze until even the scrawniest recruit straightened.
Mikasa nodded once. Hange beamed like a parent at a prodigy. Even Shadis yielded a curt, approving grunt.
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1 — First Leap
ODM rig buckled around Leon's torso like a toy harness. He tightened every strap, slid fresh blades home, and jogged beneath the gate arch into sunlight. Thirty cadets followed, gas jets hissing as they fired grapples up fractured masonry.
Leon tipped his head back. Focus point: third-story ledge, five metres. He flexed and released the right trigger. Hook screamed upward, bit stone, cable snapped taut—THRUM—and the world rotated. Centrifugal force that would have wrenched arms from sockets merely tingled. He vaulted the ledge, swapped anchors without slowing, and shot skyward again, body describing a soaring parabola that made lesser cadets gasp.
Gusts reeked of blood and brick dust. He cleared a rooftop—and finally saw them: lumbering in the street grid, melting morning haze with each steaming breath. Two five-metre Titans hunted a clot of soldiers, swinging arms like doped acrobats. Beyond them, at the far-eastern breach, a fifteen-metre specimen clawed rubble from the opening in the Wall, head tilted as if listening to distant screams.
"Ackerman!"
Leon braked on a chimney stack. Annie Leonhart approached via a low glide, eyes narrowed. "Orders are to regroup before engaging."
"There's no time." Below, a cadet tripped; a Titan's hand descended. Leon reacted without thought: he snapped both triggers and dove. Cables shrieked and the Hundredfold Core multiplied velocity. He hit the street in a sonic sigh, scooped the cadet under one arm, skated on omni-gas thrust for twenty metres, and deposited the boy behind a half-collapsed cart.
Only then did the Actuarial Cost flash: Strain +2 %.
Annie landed beside him, expression unreadable. "You'll burn out."
"Then I'll burn bright."
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2 — Twin Blades, Hundred Cuts
A five-metre Titan lurched, lips peeled back from flat teeth. Leon drew both swords; the metal sang at a higher pitch than everyone else's—as if frequencies multiplied too. He sprinted, planting a boot on the Titan's knee. Tendons crunched; he ricocheted to its hip, up the spine, and—with a twist—split the nape in a single diagonal stroke.
Stat Alert: Blade Efficiency x100 applied. Edge degradation negligible.
Steam geysered. Somewhere above, Mikasa whistled through her gear, beheading the second five-metre. They landed opposite each other on a roof ridge; their shared surname buzzed unspoken between them.
"You move like lightning," she said, panting only slightly.
"Family trait," he answered, half-truth.
A bass roar rolled down the avenue. The fifteen-metre Titan had spotted them.
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3 — Dance of Titans
It barreled forward, muscles cording under rippling skin. Leon inhaled, mapping vectors. Wind tugged errant hair into his eyes; he let it. System scrolled:
> Skill Suggestion: Aerial Loop, 270° yaw, 100× inertia transfer.
Projected nape exposure: 0.6 sec.
Projected Strain: +8 %
Fine.
He launched. G-forces tried to cave his chest but Agility ×100 shifted blood where it needed. He passed the Titan's ear, felt heat like a kiln, then yanked cables to sling behind its neck. Annie darted in lower, carving the Achilles. The monster pitched forward exactly as Leon's blades arced. Edge met flesh, parting spine, and the head slammed the cobbles with a thunder so deep windows burst.
Leon tumbled free, rolled, and came up on one knee. Steam hissed around him, condensing into spectral halos that made him look even more unreal.
Annie panted. A bead of sweat traced her temple. "We should have led with that on the assessment field. Might've spared Kleber's pride."
"I'm sparing yours now." The tease slipped out before he could stop it, and to his surprise Annie didn't scowl—she smiled, small and dangerous.
Strain +8 %, the Core reminded. Buffer sat at 16 %.
"Squad Five is overrun near Warehouse Row," Mikasa called, relaying flare code. "I'm heading."
Leon nodded. Annie vanished into alleys like smoke; Mikasa launched opposite. Leon aimed for higher prey.
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4 — Colossal Principle
A fresh plume rose—different, vaster. Not the original breach; this was inside Trost. Leon glimpsed a biped seventy metres tall, skinless muscles glowing ember-red. Heat slammed him like a wall. The Colossal Titan had appeared over the inner gate.
Even his Hundredfold stats shivered before that scale, but fear translated to urgency, not paralysis. He sprinted along rooftops until the heat forced him down. Tiles exploded into glassy slag under the Colossal's radiance.
Garrison cannons fired. The Titan ignored them, shoving another stone slab from the gate mechanism. Leon sucked searing air, mind racing. Blades couldn't reach that nape; fuel would vaporize before he got within ten metres of its neck.
"Think smaller," he murmured. Charisma could not command Titans, but perhaps it could command people.
Across the plaza he spied a three-gun emplacement abandoned when the Colossal appeared. Powder kegs sat stacked, fuses coiled. Idea sparked, multiplied.
Leon vaulted down, grabbed a keg that weighed more than a wagon mule; to him it was a satchel. Strain meter ticked but he ignored it. He waved to a knot of stunned Garrison soldiers.
"You!" The word cracked like musketry. "Load your three longest lances. Pack black-powder double, tamp slow fuse two seconds. Aim for the left achilles."
Their terror turned to mechanical obedience under Charisma's spell. Lances slid home. Leon lit the fuses with a fallen torch and counted beats as the carpenters once did for saw strokes.
"Fire!"
Recoilless bang. Three lances streaked. First scraped but the second and third embedded in the steaming tendon. Blinding gout followed; sinew parted. The Colossal faltered, knee buckling. Steam vented in a shriek.
Leon seized opportunity. Grapples launched; cables hissed, but furnace-air scorched his cloak to confetti before he crossed half the distance. Heat seared lungs. Strain +5 %. He withdrew, coughed smoke, mind spinning for Plan B, but the Titan vanished— body dissolving like a mirage. The gate machinery groaned half-open, hot iron warping.
Victory incomplete, yet the soldiers cheered anyway—cheers that turned to chants of "Ack-er-man! Ack-er-man!" Charisma skyrocketed, but the System beeped warnings: Strain 29 %.
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5 — Price of Miracles
Afternoon burned away to twilight. Leon's squad plugged street holes with wagons, ferried ammo, and re-sharpened blades. Every action multiplied; every multiplication spiked Strain. By dusk, counter on his HUD hovered at 72 %. Headaches clawed behind eyes; fingertips trembled when not clenched.
He perched on a bell-tower ledge, scanning districts. The big Titans were down or lured away; only stragglers remained. Trost—shaken, scorched, but standing.
Flare burst yellow: All Cadets—Return, Gas Depleted. He exhaled. Recovery Window was still hours away; he needed to survive till then without exceeding 100 %.
An ache like splitting stone lanced his ribs. Strain jumped 4 %. He forced breathing slower, steadier. Below, he saw Historia and Ymir carrying crates toward the infirmary. Historia's braid had loosened; sweat streaked her cheek. Ymir scolded her for lifting wrong, then took twice the weight.
Leon descended to help. The crate Historia struggled with weighed more than both girls combined. He lifted it one-handed. She blinked up, blue eyes wide.
"You're hurt," she said, noting the tremor in his hand.
"Tired," he lied.
Ymir snorted. "Prince Perfect bleeds too?"
He half-smiled. "I'll trade pain for peace any day." He walked the crate inside, set it with exaggerated care. When he straightened, Historia was at his elbow, offering a canteen. Their fingers brushed; electricity jumped that had nothing to do with Systems.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Charisma ping edged red; Strain ticked +1 %. Leon retreated before affection itself became physically dangerous.
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6 — Needles & Thread
Night settled raggedly, torches fluttering in corridors that still smelled of smoke and disinfectant. Leon found Hange in a storage alcove, sleeves rolled, hands black with grease.
"New blades," she said without hello. "Hobbled together your alloy idea—can't match your tensile figures, but look." She handed a prototype. It was lighter than pine but rang like tempered steel.
"If this holds a hundredth the load you claim, it's revolution," she added. Then her grin faded; she squinted. "Your pupils are blown. When did you last rest?"
He opened his mouth, closed it.
"Thought so." She turned, rummaged, produced a syringe. "Stimulant—keeps shock at bay five hours. Side effects: organ tremors, maybe nightmares. But I'd bet the dreams you already have are worse."
Leon accepted the shot in silence. Pain diluted, vision sharpened, but the System meter crept all the same—75 %. Hange pressed the empty syringe into a bin and thumped his armored chest. "Save some city walls to test those cables, will you?"
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7 — Final Bell
Twenty-two-hundred hours. Inner district quiet except distant dog barks. Leon dragged himself into an empty chapel whose stone stayed cool even after firestorms. He wedged the doors, slumped against an altar. Veins buzzed, muscles knotting into riot gear under skin. Strain surged: 86 %.
He began the breathing drill: inhale four, hold four, exhale six. Recovery demanded a full hour of stillness—but every heartbeat itself counted as effort. The System, ruthless accountant, added 0.01 % per minute. At 90 % he felt micro-tears spiderweb along deltoids. At 94 % his eardrums rang.
He could stop the drill, move, bleed off numbers—die, maybe save someone else—or gamble on finishing.
93… 94… 95 %… Sweat sheeted. Memory flashed of a dank Thieves' Alley where he first chose "Reflexes" two years ago; he had thought that danger. He wanted to laugh.
96 %
97 %—skin split at knuckles, blood beading.
98 %—vision narrowed, but Recovery aura began to form: pale blue mist bleeding off him, collecting—
99 %—teeth cracking under jaw pressure—
100 %
The Core's window flared white, fracturing his sight. Then—cool avalanche—Recovery slammed down, quenching agony like a wave dousing coals. Fractures knit; torn fibers rewove. Blue mist sank back into his pores, leaving faint steam tendrils.
Leon opened eyes he hadn't realized were clenched. The chapel candles guttered; wax pooled. The GUI ticker reset Strain 0 %. Outside, bells tolled midnight—gentler than before.
Footsteps approached; Mikasa slipped through a side door, scarf down.
"I thought you'd be here." She sat beside him without invitation. For a minute they just breathed, listening to the stone settle as if the church itself exhaled.
"I found out we share blood," she said finally. "An uncle told me once: 'Ackermans awaken when survival demands it.' I see your awakening is… louder."
Leon chuckled raggedly. "Show-off genes."
"We survived today," she murmured, "thanks in part to you. Tomorrow we'll bury the dead and start again."
Leon nodded. The Core purred, already tallying conversation as social effort multiplied. He ignored it. For the first time since dawn, he let head rest against chilled marble.
Outside, Trost's torches burned small but defiant. The sky above the Wall glittered—black as Titan blood, but pricked by stars that no monster could reach.
Leon whispered, maybe to Mikasa, maybe to the System, maybe to himself, "The sky is not enough. We'll take the freedom beyond it, a hundred times over."
And for one quiet moment, the world—monsters, miracles, and all—held its breath with him.
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End of Chapter 2
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