Some truths are not discovered.
They are inherited—through blood, through silence, through loss.
This was never just an experiment.
Never just a cure.
Beneath the glass of the laboratory, beneath the calm hands of a woman who refuses to break, something ancient is stirring—
a secret buried in royal veins,
a promise torn from a father's final pages,
and a choice that could end a curse… or awaken a greater one.
Because when science dares to touch destiny,
when loyalty collides with love,
and when blood remembers what history tried to erase—
the world does not change quietly.
This is the moment before everything breaks…
or finally begins.
Royal Blood: The Secret Behind the End of
the Unknown
Dawn had barely brushed the narrow windows of the laboratory when Sarah lifted her head from the table for the first time in hours.
The notebook before her was stained with faded ink and dried blood from her cracked fingertips, while the air hung heavy with chemical fumes that had yielded nothing—except failure.
Two days had passed since the leaders' meeting.
Two days since the letter.
That letter was not merely words on paper…
It was a silent push that stirred her heart from its long numbness.
Since then, she had not slept.
She could not.
Every line from that simple letter echoed endlessly inside her:
"Autumn does not always mean death."
As if autumn itself—with all its cold and falling leaves—had decided to grant her one final margin of resistance.
She sat now, staring at the vials, the exhausted mice, the piles of scattered notes. Then she whispered, as if pulling a thought from the depths of oblivion:
"Royal blood…"
The phrase had crossed her mind countless times before, but this time she wrote it down with heavier strokes, as if each letter carried the weight of an unmeasured fate.
What if my father was right?
In his old lectures, he used to speak of royal blood—a term he called "the stolen code of life"—always linking it to the origin of the Titan curse… and perhaps, its end.
She had always thought he was exaggerating.
Or fooling himself before fooling his students.
But what if he wasn't?
What if this was the path—not just to a cure… but to the end of the unknown itself?
She rose abruptly from her chair, her heart pounding with a newly awakened force. She opened a small drawer and pulled out an old medical file—Historia's—one she had secretly copied months ago. She scanned the details of her blood composition, its partial compatibility with certain Titan-afflicted lineages.
She whispered:
"It's there… something in her blood. Something unlike anyone else."
But the greater question remained suspended in the air:
Would she agree…?
Between Missing Pages… and Blood That Holds an Answer
The royal garden wore the last breaths of autumn.
Golden leaves fell like memories too tired to stay.
Sarah sat across from Historia on a cold stone bench, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Inside her chest, a single thought echoed again and again:
Something is missing… something my father left unfinished.
Historia smiled the way she always did when she sensed someone carrying a burden too heavy for their heart.
Historia:
"Sarah… your face tells me the night has been cruel to you."
Sarah pulled an old leather-bound notebook from her coat and placed it between them. Its cover was cracked, as if time had devoured its story before it could be fully written.
Sarah (softly):
"I've been reading this every night… I nearly memorized it line by line. It's the last thing my father left me. But—"
Her fingers traced the torn edges of the pages, like a child touching an unhealed wound.
"There are pages missing. Pages that should have been here… but aren't."
Historia reached out, gently touching the ragged edges without opening the book.
Historia:
"And you believe what was missing… holds your answer?"
Sarah nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on nothing.
Sarah:
"There are fragments… hints. Everything points to one hypothesis:
That something in royal blood is fundamentally different."
She exhaled shakily and added:
"But I'm afraid I'm wrong. Afraid I'll waste what little time we have."
Historia:
"What makes you believe you're on the right path?"
Sarah hesitated. Then she whispered something she had barely admitted to herself:
Sarah:
"Eren."
She looked up at the queen.
"I don't fully trust him. He sees something he won't say. He walks as if he knows the ending… as if he's trying to outrun it—or escape it."
Historia's expression did not change, but a shadow flickered briefly in her eyes—something heavy, deeply buried.
She did not answer.
The silence between them felt like a slope hiding an impending earthquake.
Sarah (more firmly):
"I need a blood sample. Even a small one. Even if I'm not entirely sure yet.
I need to know whether my father was guiding me here… and simply never had the chance to finish."
This time, Historia lifted her gaze toward the trees, as though listening to a voice only she could hear.
Then she spoke with a quiet simplicity that carried a readiness for sacrifice needing no declaration:
Historia:
"Take it."
She turned back to Sarah, her eyes more sincere than any oath.
"If my blood holds a key… then there's no reason to hide it."
She added softly, like wind brushing against an open wound:
"As for Eren… sometimes those who see the future remain silent—not because they don't trust us, but because they fear we might collapse if we knew."
A chill ran down Sarah's spine.
She did not ask more.
Some answers are never given—because they destroy those who receive them.
She stood slowly, closing the trembling notebook in her hands, and said with a hoarse yet steady voice:
Sarah:
"I won't let torn pages be the end. I'll write what was never written."
And Historia replied, in a tone that sounded like a prayer:
Historia:
"And I'll stand with you… even if the path to truth is paved with blood."
❖ The Turning Point – The Laboratory of the Last Autumn
Night had draped its heavy cloak over the capital.
The corridors had fallen silent, as if the entire palace were walking on the tips of its toes.
In the side laboratory—where the air was thick with the scent of alcohol, heated glass, and old ink—Sarah stood with exhausted resolve.
Her hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of what she now knew.
Beside her stood Nicolo.
A guard whom one might mistake for a marble statue if they did not know him—yet he was more alert than flame, more silent than sheathed blades.
On the table between them:
a small glass vial, holding a luminous drop like a living ember.
Historia's royal blood.
Sarah spoke softly, as if addressing the droplet itself rather than the man beside her:
"This isn't another test.
This is… either the beginning of the end—or a return to darkness."
Nicolo replied in his calm, aristocratic tone—steady, without haste or doubt:
"Decisive moments rarely mislead those who reach them.
You arrived here by your own will."
She looked up at him briefly—an unspoken acknowledgment.
He knew.
He had been with her from the beginning.
"When I started this work two months ago," Sarah continued,
"we had nothing. Only fragmented hypotheses, my father's incomplete book, and a mystery too vast for reason alone."
Her fingers brushed the notebook filled with symbols and genetic layers.
"I used your blood first," she said quietly.
"You were the first to give me a chance to simulate Eldian genes in the mice."
She met his gaze with silent gratitude.
"Without that… we would never have reached tonight."
Nicolo lowered his head slightly, with the humility of someone raised to greatness yet choosing humanity over pride.
"The blood of the Valdris family is not a crown, Sarah," he said calmly.
"But if it can become a bridge… that is enough for me."
She smiled—an expression marked by exhaustion and certainty.
She lifted the vial, the needle steady between her slender fingers, and drew the royal blood.
As the needle pierced the liquid, the droplet gleamed beneath the light, as if aware of its own worth.
Inside the cage, the small mouse waited.
A creature unaware of kings, walls, or history—yet tonight, fate would place the weight of humanity upon its back.
As Sarah injected the sample slowly, she spoke:
"All previous hypotheses relied on mimicking the Titan genetic burden… and none survived.
But now—we have the original blood."
"And science," Nicolo added quietly,
"that never retreats except to ascend higher."
"And faith," Sarah whispered,
"that never abandoned me—not once."
The tremor in her hand was not fear.
It was a form of prayer.
With a reverence like a midnight supplication, she prepared the Titan serum.
She knew she was about to cross a red line in an unwritten science—yet her heart insisted: this is the moment.
The mouse was not ordinary.
Weeks earlier, Nicolo himself had assisted in modifying its genes to resemble those of the Eldian people.
If any small creature could mirror their fate—it was this one.
She injected the golden fluid into its vein.
Its body convulsed, as though awakening an ancient curse.
It began to grow.
Limbs elongated. Fur fell away. Bones creaked.
Yet it did not scream—only stared upward with empty eyes toward the artificial sky of the laboratory ceiling.
Nicolo observed calmly, as though watching another act of a play whose ending he already knew.
"The transformation is stable. Not perfect… but within expectations."
Sarah whispered, breath caught:
"Then the first step succeeded. Now… we respond."
She drew the second vial—the one she had crafted slowly, with fear, devotion, and hope.
A transparent solution derived from Historia's royal blood, reinforced with a carrier protein of her own design—holding the potential to reverse the nightmare.
She approached the Titan mouse, now nearly a meter tall, and without hesitation, injected its neck.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
And then—reversal.
As if something inside realized its time had ended.
Its size diminished. Limbs retracted. Sounds faded.
Its gaze softened.
It returned.
A mouse again.
Small. Ordinary. Alive.
And most importantly—free of the curse.
Sarah did not scream.
She did not jump.
Her breath simply collapsed in her chest, then burst free:
"It worked…"
Nicolo smiled—not in shock, but in recognition.
"This is what we were waiting for."
She stepped toward him and rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder—needing to feel that the ground beneath her was real.
"We did it, Nicolo," she whispered.
"We gave humanity something that resembles hope."
"Now science has an arm," he replied evenly,
"and Sarah Jalal has left a mark that will not fade."
She repeated the experiment—again and again.
Each mouse transformed… and returned.
As if life itself had learned a new word: survival.
After the fourth trial, Sarah stopped.
Her hands trembled.
She remembered the letter.
"Autumn does not always mean death… sometimes it is preparation for another life."
Levi's handwriting—sharp, honest, unmistakable.
She wished he were here now.
Standing at the laboratory door, arms crossed, eyes saying everything without a word.
If only you were all here, she thought.
Mikasa. Jean. Armin. Sasha. Connie. Eren… Levi.
Then this victory would feel complete.
But the silence did not answer.
The laboratory lights reflected sadly off the glass.
And Sarah returned to work—with a small, genuine smile.
"Stop for tonight, Sarah," Nicolo said, placing another vial on the table.
"Even miracles need sleep."
"One more test," she replied softly.
"Let's see if miracles like confirmation."
❖ Whispers of the Night
The laboratory still breathed with the echo of success.
The mouse slept peacefully.
The instruments hummed stable numbers—as if whispering: survival is possible.
Sarah sat at her desk, pen racing across the paper, ideas spilling faster than memory could hold them.
She wrote with the frenzy of a scientist—and the wonder of a child whose wish had come true.
"Nicolo," she said urgently,
"you must go to Historia now. She needs to know everything before tomorrow's meeting."
"I will," he replied.
"But you need to sleep tonight. Achievements need guardians—not martyrs."
"One last sentence," she smiled faintly.
"There is no such thing as a 'last sentence' in a life like yours."
He left.
But the night stayed.
Sarah wrote… and wrote… until her head finally rested on the papers—sleep claiming her at last.
An hour later, Nicolo returned quietly.
She was asleep exactly as he imagined—hair scattered over pages that had just rewritten history.
He stood beside her, silent.
In his eyes:
respect.
pride.
and a buried wish—that she be safe, even if never his.
"You were always alone," he whispered.
"In research. In battle. In pain. Even in victory.
But you were not made to be alone, Sarah."
He gently removed the paper from her fingers, brushed her forehead once—an apology disguised as touch.
"I am not Levi," he murmured.
"I don't carry his past or his presence.
But I see you—entirely.
And I love you… in a silence as deep as the walls themselves."
He lifted her carefully, as though she were fragile beyond measure.
She was light—yet heavy with every hope she carried alone.
He laid her on her bed, covered her shoulders, sat beside her briefly—unwilling to let go of the moment.
"I wish," he whispered like a prayer,
"that I could be one of the reasons you smile… someday."
Then he left, door ajar, light dim, heart open to countless possibilities.
That night,
victory was not only born in the laboratory—
but in every heart brave enough to love without promise.
And the next morning,
paths would not cross only in corridors…
but deep within the soul.
Flashback – "The Last Trust"
In one of Marley's dark underground vaults, where the air reeked of burnt paper and dried ink, Jalal—Sarah's father—sat hunched over his desk, recording his final notes in swift, precise handwriting.
The night was heavy, and the streets above echoed with the footsteps of military patrols, as if something dreadful was about to unfold.
A distant explosion rattled the glass—but he did not look up.
He opened his thick journal and flipped through its pages until he reached the very end. Then, with deliberate care, he tore out the last three pages and placed them inside an old leather-bound booklet. On its cover, in his neat handwriting, he wrote:
"To be opened only if the girl proves worthy of the truth."
He stood abruptly, pulled on his coat, and moved toward the cellar door, where a man in his fifties waited—gray-bearded, his eyes heavy with worry.
Jalal (in a low voice):
"Anton… my brother, my friend. My will to you is not wealth—but knowledge."
He handed him the torn pages from his scientific work, folded carefully.
"Hide them where no treacherous hand can reach. Give them to no one—no matter how much they beg—except my daughter, Sarah. Only if she grows… only if her curiosity one day leads her to this door, then you will know the time has come."
Anton (his voice trembling):
"But Jalal… what are you saying? What do you intend to do?"
Jalal (with a sorrowful smile):
"They are coming, my friend. I know they will eliminate me. But this truth… must not die with me.
Sarah… Sarah will find her way. She is different. Her heart burns, and her mind never rests."
He stepped closer and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"These are not merely papers. They are the culmination of my research—and this world's fragile hope. Sarah will know when to ask for them. I gave her the first thread already—the incomplete booklet. It had to be unfinished… because she carries a heart that fear cannot tame—only knowledge can guide."
Then he turned away and left… without looking back.
Within hours, Jalal vanished forever.
But the torn pages remained.
Sealed inside a small wooden box, locked with a brass key, hidden in a room where Anton hung a simple sign that read:
"Do not open… until the fire returns to her eyes."
Questions for the Reader
Do you believe Sarah was right to involve Historia's royal blood in the experiment, despite the risks?
Do you think Nicolo will become an emotional threat—or a spiritual anchor—for Sarah?
What do you think of Sarah's message to Levi? Does it carry more meaning than it seems?