Hi everyone! Starting with this chapter release and next ones, the word count is so long so long (8k-23k+ words! Lord help me) that I'm going to break it into smaller parts to post more often. So, look for Chapter 19 it would be Chapter 19.1, 19.2, etc., as well as other chapters from now on. Don't worry, they all lead into each other! On my Pa tre on, supporters get the complete, uninterrupted chapters in advance…Speaking of which:

  N.B : If you’d like to get early access to the next chapters of Universal hope (Chapter 20-30) why not consider supporting me at P a tre on . com (slash) Weeb Fanthom. Your donations will be very much appreciated.

  The soil was a liar.

  Five whole weeks. The air still tasted of ash and regret. In an abandoned field on the outskirts of what was once the refugee camp, a lone figure moved with a frantic, desperate energy. It was a beast on all fours, its body a mass of powerful orange fur, its head a smooth, eyeless dome. This was Eren in his vulpimancer form or as he like to call; Savage.

  His world was a symphony of scent and vibration. He dug with his powerful claws that tore into the hard-packed earth, creating deep ridges in the futile hope of a future ‘harvest’. The scent had been promising; a thick, earthy smell of potential crop life beneath the surface. For the first time in days, a flicker of something other than grim duty had sparked in his chest. A good crop. Something to give them. Something to ease the gnawing hunger that was as much a part of the camp now as the shattered wood and patched-up tents.

  He unearthed it finally after a set of frantic digging. A gnarled root vegetable, its top a vibrant, healthy green. For a heart-stopping second, hope, cruel and fleeting, bloomed in his chest, till his nostrils picked up something else. Even as Savage doesn’t have eyebrows, his surrounding facial fur ruffled in suspicion as he turned the vegetable over.

  The back…was a seething, blackened ruin. Rot had consumed it from the inside out, a writhing mass of pale maggots were busy feasting on the decay.

  Wonderful, just fucking wonderful.

  A guttural, furious snarl ripped from Savage’s throat, a sound of pure, animalistic frustration that echoed in the empty field. He didn’t just drop it; he slammed it onto the ground and kicked it with a powerful hind leg, sending the rotten mess flying into a pile of debris where it shattered into a putrid smear. The hope curdled into a familiar, cold anger. Even the earth itself was mocking him.

  He turned to the heavy wooden carriage he’d strapped to his back with thick ropes. It was filled with his "harvest"; a pitiful collection of edible weeds, a few hardy but bitter tubers, and the scant, half-rotten vegetables he’d managed to scavenge from fields the MPs hadn't cordoned off. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

  With a low growl rumbling in his chest, he began the trek back, moving through the labyrinth of broken shacks and scorched earth, wreckages barely attended to during the aftermath of...Him.

  The fury beast shook his head and let out an exhausted gruff, then stuck to the shadows as he walked by. His sonic senses painted a picture of the few refugees who remained around the place. They moved like ghosts, their footsteps were heavy, their heartbeats a slow, weary rhythm of survival. He could smell their despair, a sour tang that clung to the air thicker than the scent of smoke. This was his doing. This desolation, this quiet suffering.

  …All of it.

  He moved faster, the weight of the carriage nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

  ________________

  Inside the Yeager shack, the silence was a physical presence. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the shutters, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like forgotten spirits. Carla’s face had etched with new lines of worry as she meticulously mending a torn shirt. Each pull of the needle was slow and deliberate, making sure the stiches were done right.

  Mikasa swept the same patch of dirt floor for the third time, her movements efficient but stiff. Her eyes, however, were constantly flicking towards the door. The scarlet scarf around her neck felt tighter than usual, a constant reminder of the boy who gave it to her, and the chasm that had opened up between them since that day.

  She wanted to speak, to break the suffocating quiet, to ask Carla if she thought the rations would hold, if Armin was recovering, if Eren was… Eren. But the words stuck in her throat. What was there to say that hadn't already been said in a thousand worried glances and aborted conversations?

  A heavy THUD against the side of the shack made them both jump.

  Carla’s needle stilled. Mikasa’s grip tightened on the broom. A moment later, the door creaked open. Eren stood there, drenched in sweat and caked in dirt and the empty carriage harness in his hand. He didn't look at them, his gaze fixed on a point on the floor between them. The green of his eyes seemed duller, clouded by a fatigue that went beyond the physical.

  "I left the edible portion by the backyard," he said, his voice rough, as if he hadn't used it in days. "The rest... I'm taking to the distribution point."

  He moved to the corner where the small, carefully sorted pile of their own meager share lay, then began loading it back into the carriage.

  "Eren," Mikasa's voice was soft, but it cut through the silence like a knife. "You don't have to do this. Not right now. You've been out since dawn. You need to eat. You need to rest."

  The brunette flinched, almost imperceptibly, but one could still tell. "I'm fine." The words were automatic, a damn shield.

  "You're not." she insisted, taking a step forward. Her heart ached to see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was carrying the weight of the walls. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You're… you're avoiding us."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  That got his attention. His head snapped up, and for a split second, the raw, unfiltered guilt in his eyes was terrifying.

  "Avoiding you? I'm helping!" The words came out sharper than he intended, laced with a frustration that had been boiling inside him for weeks. "This is the only thing I can do! This mess, this… this hunger… it's my fault! All of it! If I can't even do this much, then what the hell am I—"

  He caught himself, his jaw clenching so hard Mikasa could have sworn she heard it pop. He looked away, his breath hitching.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered, the fire gone as quickly as it had ignited, replaced by a weary shame. "I didn't mean to… I-I just have to go."

  He finished strapping the carriage to his back, his movements hurried now, desperate to escape the concern in her eyes, the silent accusation he saw in every face, even when it wasn't there.

  Mikasa opened her mouth to protest, to insist on going with him, to not let him shoulder this burden alone. But the words died before they were born.

  A memory, cold and sharp as shattering crystal, flashed behind her eyes.

  "Always following…You’re too insistent to be let loose."

  It wasn't his voice, not really. It was Zs'Sakyr's venom, dripping from Eren's lips. But the sentiment, the rejection, the feeling of being a chain around his ankle… it had found a home in her heart. Her hand, which had reached out for him, fell back to her side.

  Eren saw the hesitation, the flicker of pain in her silver eyes. He didn't understand its source, only that he had put it there. Again. Without another word, he slammed a hand down on the Omnitrix. A flash of green, and the weary, dirt-stained boy was replaced by the sleek, black-and-blue form of Blitz. In a blur of motion, he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving only a gust of wind and a profound silence in his wake.

  Mikasa stood frozen, the phantom sensation of his cold grip on her wrist throbbing beneath the fabric of her sleeve.

  Just why had it gotten to this? She couldn’t help but wonder as a shaken memory swallowed her whole.

  Five weeks ago, Irrigation ditches…

  Everywhere just smelt of blood, and something extraterrestrial. Mikasa’s body ached as stood over the unconscious body of Reiner. Annie, broken and pale, watched her with an unreadable expression. Even with the thralls being back to normal, for some reason Mikasa couldn’t get her guard down, adrenaline and faintest hints of wariness still surged within Mikasa, especially considering what Annie had nearly done a few hours prior.

  Then was when, Eren came.

  Not as a hero, not as a victor. But as a ghost. Walking slowly, deliberately, through the wreckages. His clothes were littered with dirt, his right arm’s sleeve torn revealing freshly regenerated flesh. In his left arm, he cradled an unconscious Armin, his best friend's face as pale as death. Dragged behind him by the collar of his shirt was Bran, also unconscious, his body already showing the greyish tint of the thrall's corruption.

  But it was Eren's face that stopped her heart.

  It was blank. Devoid of triumph, of relief, of pain. It was a hollowed-out mask. His eyes, those bright, burning emeralds, were empty. They saw the destruction, the bodies, her, but they registered nothing. It was the same look he had worn a year ago, kneeling beside her while not so far away were the bodies of the men who had killed her parents. The look of a boy who had stared into an abyss so profound that a part of him had stayed behind.

  She had taken a step towards him, her own name a prayer on her lips. "Eren…?"

  He stopped for just a brief second as he heard her voice, but then walked right past her. As if she weren't even there. He had a mission. Deliver Armin. Deliver Bran. His work wasn't finished. The emptiness in his gaze was more terrifying than any amount of rage.

  Back in the present, Mikasa let out a shaky breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Carla was beside her, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  "He carries too much," Carla whispered, her voice thick with a mother's helpless grief. "He always has. But now… he thinks he has to carry it alone."

  Mikasa nodded, unable to speak. Why did he feel he had to bear everything? Why did he push them away, when all they wanted was to share the load? The tension with Armin was a palpable thing; a friendship now crisscrossed with the unspoken trauma of violation and a painful, life-saving purge. And with her… it was a distance measured in silent meals, aborted touches, and the ghost of a possession that haunted them both.

  ________________

  Outside, the wind whispered through the remnants of the camp, a barren echo of the hope that had once lived there. The harvest had failed. And as Eren raced through the district, distributing his pitiful offerings like penance, it felt like they were all just waiting for the next storm to break.

  As Blitz, the world was a streak of muted color and distorted sound. Eren moved through the shattered landscape of the refugee camp like a phantom, a blur that barely disturbed the dust motes hanging in the oppressive afternoon air. The carriage on his back, laden with the pathetic fruits of his labor, felt like the physical manifestation of abject futility.

  He arrived at one of the central distribution point; a large, dusty square where the hope of the camp came to die a little every day. A long, sullen line of refugees snaked from a rickety wooden table manned by two Garrison soldiers who looked as enthusiastic as if they were shoveling manure (Sarcasm). Which, Eren thought with a bitter irony, they probably considered this to be.

  He didn't stop. He didn't materialize. He was a gust of wind, a flicker of shadow. In the half-second it took one of the soldiers to blink and rub the sweat from his eyes, three new, roughly woven baskets appeared at the end of the table, filled with the scraggly roots and bitter greens he'd scavenged.

  The soldier, a man named Brenden with a perpetually sun-reddened neck, did a double-take. His jaw, already set in a permanent scowl, went slack for a moment before tightening into a knot of pure irritation.

  "Not this shit again," he grumbled, his voice a low growl meant for his companion. "Fourth time this month. Poof! Like goddamn magic. Are we being haunted by a charitable ghost now?"

  His companion, a younger, wearier-looking soldier who was Jace, just sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Just be glad it's here, Brenden. It's something."

  "Glad?" Said person spat the word like a curse. "Why am I even here, Jace? Huh? Why are we here, sweltering in this sun, breathing in the stink of despair, handing out rotten carrots to people who look at us like we're the reason their lives are shit?"

  He gestured vaguely towards the more permanent structures of Trost in the distance. "Meanwhile, the MPs who were supposed to be keeping order in this dump? Rotated out. Given cozy posts inside Wall Sina, probably sipping tea and laughing about the 'great refugee panic'. And we're stuck here, in this... this cursed place, with its rumors of ghosts and monsters."

  His tirade was cut short by a sharp, impatient cough from the front of the line. A refugee man stood there, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat, his hands calloused from the brutal labor of clearing rubble, a "job" the Garrison had generously provided. His face was a mask of exhaustion and simmering anger.

  "Are you going to stand there talking all day, or are you going to do your job?" the man said, his voice raspy.

  Brenden's head snapped around, his irritation finding a perfect target. "My job?" he sneered, stepping around the table to loom over the refugee. "My job is to stop Titans or watch over the walls, you ungrateful wretch. Not to serve a beggar who doesn't know his place. I'm standing here in this blazing sun for you. The least you could do is show some damn respect."

  The refugee didn't back down. "Respect? For what? For this?" He gestured at the meager piles of food.

  "Maybe you'd like it better if I just ate it myself!" Brenden snarled, his face twisting. He snatched a pale, wilted carrot from the nearest basket and took an exaggerated bite, chewing with a mocking slowness.

  "There. Since you're so slow. Looks like you're not the only one who's a donkey meant for hard labor, eh? Maybe you should try begging. It might suit you better than that entitled scowl."

  The refugee’s hands clenched into fists, the tendons in his neck standing out. The air crackled with the promise of violence. The other refugees in the line shifted uneasily, a low murmur of discontent rippling through them.

  Before the first punch could be thrown, a hand shot out and clamped around Brenden's wrist. It was Hank, his face grim and disappointed.

  "Alright soldier. That's enough," Hank said, his voice low but firm, carrying an authority that surprised even Eren, who was watching from the shadows, his Kineceleran blood running cold. "Stop this bullshit. Now."

  Brenden wrenched his arm away, but the moment was broken. He glared at Hank, then shoved the half-eaten carrot back into the basket and scooped a meager portion of food into a bowl. He thrust it at the refugee. "Here. Your royal feast, your highness."

  The refugee snatched the bowl, his eyes burning with hatred. "Pig," he muttered under his breath, turning away before the situation could escalate further.

  Brenden then rounded on Hank, his anger redirecting at the older Garisson. "What? You their champion now, Hank? You and your little group of truth-tellers? Don't think we don't know why you're really here. You, Stefan, Don, Jochen... and especially that drunk, Hannes. You're all in deep shit. That's why you're here, playing nursemaid, instead of at your proper posts. At least your fate is just boring. Hannes? I heard he's on permanent latrine duty. Fitting, for a man who talks about ghosts."

  Hank's jaw tightened, his own composure fraying. "Watch your tongue, Brenden."

  "Or what?" Brenden sneered. "You'll report me? Go ahead. We're all in hell anyway."

  From his hidden vantage point, Eren felt a fresh wave of negative emotions.

  Hannes...

  Unable to bear the scene any longer, Blitz turned and fled, a silent streak of shame leaving the arguing soldiers and the hungry, broken people behind.

  Chapter 20-30 are already available on P a tre on . com (slash) Weeb Fanthom.