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Chapter 3 – Wires of Heaven
A pale wedge of sun slipped over Wall Rose and struck the drill yard where smoke still rose from yesterday's fires. Leon Ackerman stood at the center of the gravel square, boots braced, palms upturned. Between his hands stretched a length of cable no thicker than lamp-wick, yet it groaned under the weight of a two-ton wagon suspended from its midpoint. Cadets ringed him, gawking. Even Instructor Shadis had gone wordless.
The cable glittered silver-blue: Hange's first batch of Titan-Steel Weave. Inside each hair-fine strand lay slivers of tempered tendon—animal collagen boiled, spun and alloy-bonded to steel by a forge team who had muttered the word "impossible" until Leon bent a bar of pig-iron across his knee to clarify expectations.
He rolled wrists, letting wagon mass pendulum. "Feels like hemp rope," he announced, voice carrying farther than physics allowed—Charisma still a silent megaphone. "But tensile strength is north of ten thousand newtons. Enough to stop a fifteen-metre abnormal at a full sprint… or let two humans slingshot round one."
Mikasa, leaning on a stacked crate of blade-cores, arched a brow. "Two?"
Leon flashed the grin that made hearts misfire. "Want to try a duet, cousin?"
The watching cadets gasped—their strongest soldier and the beautiful newcomer, dancing in mid-air. Mikasa allowed the faintest curl at her lips. "Only if I lead."
Laughter scattered nerves. Behind them, Historia and Ymir finished lashing practice dummies to a scaffolding tower. Historia's braid bounced as she waved. Ymir only smirked, but her eyes tracked every shift of Leon's shoulders.
Hange bounded forward, goggles askew, brandishing a ledger. "One condition: I record every vector. Science before romance, children."
"Record all you like," Leon said, and slotted the new cable into his right gas canister. Mikasa mirrored the motion. Twin grapples clacked into the spool housings—prototype talons milled from Leon's own sketches.
Gas hissed. Hooks fired with a high fluting note. They buried in the granite lip forty metres overhead.
Leon's hundredfold muscles sang when the cable snapped taut; his body launched, Mikasa's momentum intertwining half a second later. They spiraled together, two comets bound by invisible orbit. Wind shredded the practice yard's smoke veil, slapped hair across foreheads. Mikasa adjusted angling; Leon matched her yaw, both letting the Titan-Steel line bear the shared centrifugal load.
At apogee they let go. Momentum threw them apart into perfect mirrored flips before gravity reclaimed them. They landed nineteen metres distant, boots kissing dirt with the delicate tap of drumsticks. The wagon they'd used as counter-weight still hung from Leon's hand-held sample—a statement writ in oak and iron.
Silence lasted heartbeat after heartbeat, broken only by the ping of cooling metal. Then the cadets erupted: whistles, cheers, one raw "HOLY SH—" smothered by Shadis' elbow.
Hange scribbled madly. "First data spike off my chart! We need a taller tower."
Leon bowed toward Mikasa; she returned the gesture. Their eyes locked a second longer than politeness required. The Hundredfold Core tallied social heat, nudging Charisma upward. He shuttered the display—numbers felt intrusive in moments that should be human.
Shadis cleared throat gravel. "Demonstration concluded. Resume drills!"
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Work detail dragged through noon. Leon supervised cable crimping while Mikasa coached three wider-hipped cadets on hip-thrust timing—ODM, like knives, respected leverage. Annie Leonhart lingered near the wire piles, pretending disinterest, but her gaze flicked to Leon whenever the sunlight caught his hair. Across the yard, Historia ferried water skins, bumping shoulders with Ymir in playful argument. Once, when Leon's laugh carried across the square, Historia stumbled; water sloshed. Ymir steadied her, muttering something that made the blonde blush crimson.
The Hundredfold Core registered micro-social shifts like pressure gauges. Leon silenced the overlay again. I'm not a ledger of affections, he scolded the System, just let people feel.
As shadows lengthened, a fresh figure appeared at the gate—a slim man in the charcoal cloak of the Scouts, expression carved from granite harder than the Wall itself. Many cadets failed to notice him until he spoke.
"Which one of you is the miracle worker?"
Voice soft, almost bored, yet it sliced conversation mid-word. Leon recognized the face from contraband wanted posters—Levi Ackerman, humanity's strongest soldier. Surprise, then intrigue rippled through him. Another Ackerman—and one they call strongest? The title felt suddenly ambiguous.
Levi's grey eyes scanned the yard, settled on Leon's lifted hand. "Hn." He strolled closer, boots avoiding patches of muck with uncanny precision. When he halted three paces away, the difference in height—Levi scarcely reached Leon's shoulder—seemed irrelevant; raw authority made the air tight.
"I expected bigger," Levi said, glancing at the wagon still dangling overhead.
Leon set the load down. "It was heavier a minute ago."
Levi's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Commander Erwin wants proof the rumors aren't drunken fiction. You've got five minutes to impress me."
Hange squeaked. "Captain! He already—"
Levi raised a finger; Hange snapped silent, eyes sparkling at the drama unfolding.
Leon shrugged. "One condition: you spar me afterward. Blade to blade."
Muttered oaths spread. Sparring Levi was near suicide. But the captain only flicked lint from his cuff. "If you last ten seconds, maybe."
Leon stepped back, took hold of one end of Titan-Steel line. "Mikasa—other end?"
She tossed him a look equal parts warning and thrill. They clipped the cable between harness rings—living bolo. Gas valves opened. Twin grapples fired into distant roof beams, slack forming a horizontal catenary. Leon inhaled. Core: prime agility burst. The HUD winked compliance.
He and Mikasa sprinted opposite directions, paying line behind like sewing thread. Fifty metres apart they leapt, let gas jets snap cable taut—and the world warped. The line rebounded, catapulting them inward. They crossed paths above Levi's head at eighty kilometres per hour, boots missing by hairsbreadth. Windshock flattened hair, rattled shutters.
They separated, re-anchored, repeated—this time spiralling a barrel-roll that threaded them through a bell tower's ruined arch without grazing stone. On the third pass Mikasa gave a silent signal; Leon answered. The final slingshot lofted both ninety metres high—far above Trost's battered chimneys—where they seemed to hover a moment, black silhouettes against melting gold sky.
When they dropped, ODM bursts softened impact. Mikasa landed light. Leon punched a crater into compacted dirt merely because the Core still overflowed.
Gasps lingered, replaced by stunned silence. Levi folded arms. "Tolerable." He looked at Leon's cratered footprint. "Blade bout. Now."
Swords flashed out. People scattered. No gas, no cables—pure footwork. Levi's opening dash blurred, too fast for most eyes. Leon parried, felt shock jar up ulna. Levi's technique was economy incarnate; where Leon swung rivers, Levi flicked raindrops that cut stone.
Ten seconds slipped into twenty, then forty. Sparks flew when tempered iron kissed. Leon's strength advantage meant nothing if he couldn't land a hit. Every jab Levi dodged fed Strain increments. 12 %… 15 %… Leon grinned despite sweat—it was rare to be matched.
Levi slid inside guard, blade tip halting at Leon's throat hairbreadth away. "Time," he said.
Leon raised palms. Around them cadets exhaled—some hadn't breathed since first clash. Levi stepped back, sheathing sword. "You're a cannon without aim. Useful if the barrel doesn't burst." He flicked eyes to the cable coils. "The wires are interesting. Bring prototypes to HQ tomorrow. You, Ackerman, are coming to the Scouts."
Instructor Shadis bristled but said nothing; Erwin's writ trumped boot-camp hierarchy.
Mikasa opened mouth to protest—Levi raised a hand. "He'll return when I've seen enough." He added, softer so only Leon heard, "We protect our own blood, or we stop them early."
Leon nodded. Respect, wary and mutual, bridged the space between.
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Night came with gentle drizzle that cooled scorched brick. Cadets bunked exhausted; only a few silhouettes lingered atop the chapel roof where tarp tents covered wounded.
Leon sat on ridge tiles, stripping sweat-soaked shirt from aching torso. Purple bruises webbed ribs—Levi's touch—yet the Core logged them already healing. Footsteps approached; Ymir flopped beside him, legs dangling over gutter. She offered a flask of apple liquor.
"Princess is asleep," she said, meaning Historia. "Kept asking why you push till you shake."
Leon took a swig, returning it. "Because if I stop, I remember the people I couldn't save."
Ymir eyed him sideways. "You save plenty. Just don't die before she learns to flirt properly."
He barked a short laugh. "I'll try."
They traded the flask till half gone. Clouds parted; moonlight glazed rooftops. Quiet stretched—comfortable—even Charisma metric lay dormant.
Ymir rose at last, wobbled. "If Scouts steal you, write her." She strode away without waiting for yes.
Leon leaned back, drinking sky. In two hours Recovery Window would open; strain sat at 22 %, low compared to yesterday, but tomorrow promised fresh totals. Somewhere, Titans still roamed, walls still cracked. He traced the silver line of Titan-Steel cable spooling from his harness to rooftop ring, and imagined thousands like it slashing arcs of freedom overhead. Wires of heaven—pathways toward futures unchained.
A fresh System prompt chimed:
> Skill Unlocked — Mass Resonance
Convert kinetic surplus into wide-area shockwave.
Risk: exponential Strain.
Leon smiled, closed the prompt. Not tonight. But soon.
Behind him, chapel bells chimed first watch. He pushed off the ridge and walked toward dorm lights, silent vow echoing with each step: One hundred times, a thousand—whatever it takes until the sky itself submits.
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End of Chapter 3