The iron gate of the Biohazards’ cave groaned open.

  Cold air drifted in from outside.

  From the darkness beyond the threshold, a figure stepped inside.

  His boots made no sound against the blood-slick stone.

  He wore a long black military overcoat — structured, tailored, and severe. The high collar stood rigid against his jawline, trimmed with subtle gold stitching. The shoulders were reinforced with gold epaulettes, sharp and deliberate. A black armband wrapped his upper arm.

  Under the coat, a double-breasted uniform could be seen — dark as obsidian, fastened with polished brass buttons aligned with precision. Medals hung neatly at his chest, suspended by red and blue ribbons, not decorative — official.

  A gold chain draped from one pocket to another across his torso.

  A peaked officer’s cap shadowed his eyes. Its brim was polished, edged in gold. An insignia rested at the front — sharp, metallic, unfamiliar.

  One gloved hand held a slender black baton loosely at his side.

  He walked past bodies.

  Past severed limbs.

  Past dried streaks of arterial spray painted across stone.

  He stopped before Abyth’s head.

  The tyrant’s eyes were frozen wide.

  The officer studied the neck.

  Not the face.

  The cut.

  Clean.

  Controlled.

  Deliberate.

  “The cut marks…” he murmured quietly.

  His voice was calm.

  Almost clinical.

  Without turning, he spoke into the cave.

  “Karl.”

  Another figure entered from the darkness.

  This one wore the same uniform — black, structured, gold-trimmed — but without the overcoat. His sleeves were fitted, gloves matte black. A gold cord looped over one shoulder and fastened beneath his chest. The jacket was double-breasted, sharp at the waist, secured with polished brass buttons.

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  A holstered sidearm rested against his belt.

  His cap sat lower over his brow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stepped forward, examining the wound.

  A pause.

  Then quietly—

  “It matches.”

  Silence filled the cavern.

  The superior officer remained still.

  “…Must be him,” Karl added.

  The superior said nothing.

  After a moment, he turned.

  “We can only hope.”

  They began walking toward the exit.

  But then—

  A voice echoed from deeper inside the cave.

  “Help! Please! Let us out! We’ll starve in here!”

  Another voice joined.

  “We’ll do anything!”

  The officer stopped.

  Karl moved ahead of him, stepping toward the source — a reinforced room. The prison chamber.

  Inside, several of the Biohazard guards were locked behind the bars they once used to cage others.

  Desperate.

  Hungry.

  Terrified.

  Karl extended his arm.

  His palm opened toward the loudest one.

  The guard flinched backward instinctively.

  “Karl.”

  The superior’s voice was soft.

  Controlled.

  “Wait.”

  Karl froze mid-motion.

  The superior officer stepped forward slowly.

  He lifted one gloved hand and grasped the brim of his cap.

  With a subtle motion, he tilted it downward — shadow deepening across his eyes.

  A faint smile curved beneath it.

  Measured.

  Predatory.

  “We may extract something useful,” he said calmly.

  Silas woke to pain.

  Not sharp.

  Heavy.

  Like his blood had been replaced with stone.

  The low rumble of an engine vibrated through the metal beneath him. His vision swam before slowly focusing on the ceiling of his RV.

  His RV.

  He tried to sit up.

  Bad idea.

  His stomach twisted violently, and his head throbbed as if someone had hammered iron into his skull.

  Darts.

  Abyth.

  The throne room.

  Silas forced himself upright anyway.

  The cargo hold was packed.

  Women. Children. A handful of injured men. Wrapped in blankets. Some asleep. Some staring silently at nothing.

  Alive.

  They were alive.

  His breath caught.

  Then he saw them.

  Eren sat against a crate near the wall, eyes closed — not fully asleep. Just resting. One arm hung loosely over his knee.

  Avelin lay beside him.

  Not peacefully.

  Bandaged.

  A strip of cloth wrapped around her wrists. Another at her shoulder. Faint dried blood near her temple. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

  Her head rested against Eren’s leg.

  He hadn’t moved.

  He hadn’t laid her somewhere comfortable.

  He had simply stayed where he sat.

  Guarding.

  From the front passenger seat, a man twisted around and noticed Silas awake.

  “Well,” he muttered, “merchant’s back from the dead.”

  Silas blinked at him.

  “…Who are you?”

  “Mark,” the man replied. “Prisoner. Formerly.”

  He gestured around.

  “We all were.”

  Silas’ throat went dry.

  “The tyrant—”

  “Dead,” Mark said simply.

  Silas’ eyes slowly shifted to Eren.

  “…How?”

  Mark gave a quiet exhale through his nose.

  “You don’t remember?”

  Silas didn’t answer.

  Mark leaned back slightly.

  “He cut both arms off mid-laugh.”

  Silence filled the RV.

  Silas stared at Eren.

  “…He did what?”

  That was enough to stir him.

  Eren’s eyes opened slowly.

  Not startled.

  Aware.

  “What’s going on.”

  Silas looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

  “You killed Abyth.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Eren held his gaze.

  “Yes.”

  No pride.

  No explanation.

  Just fact.

  Silas swallowed.

  The engine hummed louder as the RV shifted terrain.

  From the driver’s seat, another voice called back:

  “Road’s splitting ahead!”

  A bald man leaned sideways to look through the cracked windshield.

  “And I see tunnel exits.”

  The word hung in the air.

  Tunnel.

  Zemlyia.

  Iron Hammer territory.

  Eren gently adjusted Avelin’s position so her head wouldn’t slide as the vehicle slowed.

  His voice was calm.

  “Then we’re close.”

  Outside, carved into dead rock and reinforced with old steel plating, massive tunnel mouths waited in silence.

  And beyond them—

  Zemlyia.

  Sands and Steel has officially come to an end.

  Old Frost has started.