He rested his hand lightly on the bars in front of him and studied the iron. Roger Eikam noted each rod was as thick as a baby's arm, solid, scored with scratches and crusted with blood.
This was "the felons' block." Who knew how many monsters it had held.
But the scarred surface also told him something else: the iron was very hard, very tough—had withstood more cuts and blows than one could count.
Yet to Roger it felt brittle as straw, ready to snap at a touch.
Blood-black lines crawled over the back of his hand. They moved, as if searching, all of them edging toward his head.
Pain flared—born from those blood-black markings. Wherever they slid, the flesh stung as if seared by a branding iron.
Even so, the markings were the source of the power surging through him.
His arm hadn't swollen to its usual giant size—if anything, it had shrunk—but the strength in it was nothing like before.
He gripped a bar and squeezed.
Crack.
A clean, crisp sound.
The iron bar snapped. Roger held the broken length in his hand.
"What—what's going on?!"
Rod Reiss went white. Anyone would, seeing a man break a solid iron rod like a dry reed without effort.
He also knew exactly where such inhuman strength came from.
The Jaw Titan.
The power of the Titans.
Without hesitating, Rod pulled a vial of Titan spinal fluid from his coat to inject himself.
He knew if he didn't transform before Roger, only failure and death awaited him.
"Kenny…"
He shouted once in despair, but he knew Kenny wasn't coming back.
He'd imagined a situation like this, yes—but never that the infamous throat-cutter Kenny would be scared by a kid barely grown and turn tail on the spot.
Rod fumbled open the case with the spinal fluid, hoping to fish out the syringe and jab his arm before Roger could slip fully through the bars.
Roger had once been injected with spinal fluid. He knew very well what that finely packaged syringe meant.
He wouldn't give Rod the chance. He tore loose a second bar.
Crack!
It sheared off, leaving a jag of razor metal at the break.
Like a javelin thrower, Roger hurled the bar at Rod Reiss.
Whoosh!
The air cracked—like a bullet leaving the chamber.
The throw was surgical. The bar punched through Rod's shoulder and slammed him into the wall behind.
His arm went dead. The syringe slid from his slack fingers.
Snap!
The glass shattered. Spinal fluid splashed across the floor.
"Aaahhh!!"
Out of pain or something else, Rod broke. He dove for the puddle.
Gritting against the gnawing pain of the black lines, Roger vaulted out of the cell with the other bar in hand, flipped the jagged tip, and drove it down—ramming it through Rod Reiss' neck.
Rod sprawled face-down, trying to lick the spinal fluid from the stones, but the bar through his throat pinned him to the floor, skewering his windpipe.
He couldn't move. The fluid, exposed to air, kept vaporizing—seconds from vanishing.
Tears leaked from Rod's eyes as he stared at the dwindling pool.
"U…ri… Fre…t…z…"
With his windpipe pierced, only a silent wail came out.
Step by step, Roger walked up to him.
His face was blank.
His hair hung in loose tangles; a muscle flickered now and then when the pain bit hard.
He was still Roger, but he looked more like a revenant.
A blood-drinking revenant.
Roger pressed the bar at Rod's neck another inch into the stone, crouched before him, glanced at the rictus on Rod's face, then at the last of the steaming spinal fluid.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
"To crave and never touch—hurts, right?"
"I've lived that."
"If you promise to tell me who Jean Fritz is, I'll save you. If you understand, nod."
A sliver of life within reach—Rod gave a tiny nod and shut his eyes.
Roger pulled the bar out along with the chunk through his neck, then tried to use the black markings to mend the wound.
Under his will the lines "crawled" down to his fingertips. Tendrils slid into Rod Reiss' body, knitting his windpipe enough for him to breathe.
Outside the underground cells.
Kenny led his men up toward the surface. Behind him his squad kept asking and reporting at once.
"Captain, why are we leaving now?"
"You don't need to know. And once we're out, be ready to fight. If you get killed, don't blame me—I warned you."
"Huh?"
They traded looks. What was the captain talking about?
They were inside MP headquarters. Who would be dumb enough to pick a fight here?
They reached the last step.
On reflex, Kenny put on his hat, tipped the brim low, and deliberately lagged half a step to let a man go out first.
The moment that man pushed the door—
Bang!!
A shot cracked. The squadmate who stepped out first dropped with half his head gone. Blood sprayed across the iron door.
"Ambush!!"
As captain, Kenny barked the warning.
Everyone moved at once, hugging the jambs and dragging the corpse inside.
Outside, smoke curled from Levi's gun. He stood a short distance away, ringed by MP bodies.
That shot had been his—fired on Roger's orders.
Ever since they "presented" their own boss to the jail, Scorpio had been staking out MP headquarters in plainclothes, waiting for the Anti-Personnel squad to go below.
It annoyed Levi that the first shot didn't take Kenny's head.
Tours Beak was already closing in with their people from the flanks. In moments the whole MP garrison would be overrun by Scorpio's raiders, who had mapped every posted and hidden sentry.
Reinforcements would come fast. But for now, the Anti-Personnel squad had nowhere to run.
Levi broke open his shotgun and swapped out the spent barrel, eyes flat on the iron door.
"Tch, Kenny. After all this time, I can still smell your stink from a few meters away."
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