Reincarnated In Attack On Titan World As Nobody

"Yes," Shin replied truthfully, giving Harry a firm nod.

For a moment, he didn't quite know how to explain his decision. Uncle Harry had treated him like a son—like his successor. He had passed down everything he knew about forging, about survival, about life itself, without ever holding back. And now Shin was leaving it all behind.

The air around them suddenly grew heavy, silent.

But the quiet didn't last long. In under three seconds, Harry broke the tension with a laugh that was half genuine, half forced.

"Well, go on then," he said, waving a hand. "You're young. Gotta go out and try your luck sometime."

Shin gave a deeper, more determined nod this time. "Yeah," he said softly.

There was another pause. Then Harry sighed heavily, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his sweat-drenched shirt. His massive, calloused hand—usually used to deliver bone-jarring slaps on Shin's back—reached out gently and ruffled his hair.

"Just don't die out there, kid."

Shin's lips twitched into a small smile. "I'm planning to live to a hundred."

"Hah. Remember you said that," Harry grumbled, already turning away.

Without another word, the old blacksmith lumbered back to the other end of the equipment depot, grabbing tools and muttering under his breath like always. But there was something different in the way he moved. A little slower. A little quieter.

Shin watched him go for a while, chest tight. Then, drawing a long breath, he exhaled slowly and returned to his work. The look in his eyes sharpened with focus. He had no time for hesitation. Not here. Not now.

All around the workshop, the dull clang of metal striking metal echoed endlessly. Sparks flew from grindstones. Apprentices grunted under the weight of steel. But even amidst the noise, Shin stood out.

Other blacksmiths began to take notice.

His posture was precise. His grip never faltered. He worked like a machine—methodical, relentless. More than once, older smiths cast sideways glances of surprise and—occasionally—envy. Even some of the other apprentices shot him bitter looks.

It didn't take long before those glances hardened.

Shin could feel it: the simmering resentment. He was outperforming nearly all of them, repairing and sharpening weapons with a speed and efficiency that put seasoned apprentices to shame. While others struggled through their quota, Shin blazed through three times the work. And he never asked for help.

Of course, he was only doing what needed to be done.

They didn't see it that way.

He didn't have time to care. In front of him were crates stacked with weapons—blades meant for fighting Titans. Their edges had dulled. Their integrity needed checking. While rare firearms and artillery were reserved for specialized repair facilities deeper within Wall Maria, this depot focused on standard gear—especially blades forged from black gold bamboo.

A rare and durable material unique to Paradis Island, black gold bamboo had the elasticity of natural fibers and the strength of hardened steel. It was light, flexible, and perfect for the high-speed combat required against Titans.

Shin polished each blade meticulously. The cold touch of metal vibrated up his arms, and with each pass of the whetstone, he felt his hands grow steadier, more attuned.

A strange feeling came over him.

He wanted to swing one—feel the weight of the real thing, imagine how it would move in combat.

But he knew better.

You'll have to wait until you're in the training corps before you get to wield this for real. Then even longer until you're issued combat gear. It's going to be a long wait, he thought, suppressing a sigh.

Still, that twinge of frustration was quickly overwhelmed by his passion for the craft. He wasn't here to dream. He was here to prepare.

The hours passed quickly. The rhythm of the work became meditative. And thanks to his relentless pace, the productivity of the entire workshop improved. Other apprentices, unwilling to be shown up, began working faster just to keep up.

The blacksmiths noticed. Their jobs suddenly became much easier.

Harry, freed from constant oversight, ended up playing cards with Hannes and sipping from a flask of contraband wine. When Shin noticed, he narrowed his eyes and smirked to himself.

I'm definitely telling Aunt Martha about that later, he thought. It's for his own good.

That night, the exhaustion of the day melted away when a soft chime echoed in Shin's mind.

[Wrist Flexibility +1]

A crooked grin spread across his face.

"I love sharpening blades," he muttered.

Unfortunately, the sheer number of weapons meant the work couldn't be finished in a single day. Over the next week, Shin returned to the depot daily, continuing his grind. After earning three points of wrist flexibility, the system stopped awarding more—likely because his work intensity had plateaued.

Still, his arm strength had improved by a notch. And more noticeably, so had his body.

Thanks to his aggressive eating habits and constant labor, his physique was changing. His height, previously stalled at 1.55 meters, had jumped to 1.6 in just over two months. He was still a few weeks shy of turning fourteen, yet already outpacing most of his peers.

His limbs had thickened. His shoulders had broadened. He was no longer a scrawny kid.

Harry and Martha had noticed too. The couple, puzzled by his sudden growth, chalked it up to youth and "a good growth spurt." Shin didn't correct them.

Better they not know how much meat I've been sneaking after hours.

But just when Shin thought the peace of the workshop might last, reality came knocking.

One day, while Harry and the senior blacksmiths were away, a group of five apprentices approached him.

They weren't smiling.

"Shin," the tallest one said, his tone sharp, "you've gotten real full of yourself lately."

Shin looked up from the blade he was working on, eyes calm.

"…Huh?"

He could already guess what this was about. Jealousy. Insecurity. Inferiority.

His performance had embarrassed them. He had become a measuring stick, and most of them weren't measuring up.

Some of them had talent and drive. But others—well, they were used to being comfortable. Shin's sudden presence had changed that.

He saw it in their eyes. They weren't here to talk.

Without a word, Shin stood, set the blade aside, and walked toward the lead apprentice.

Before the boy could even raise a hand, Shin's fist buried itself into his stomach.

WHUMP.

The sound of air being punched from lungs echoed across the depot.

The boy crumpled with a wheeze, folding over Shin's arm like wet laundry.

For these kinds of people—words were a waste.

Shin stood over him, eyes cold.

"If you can't keep up," he said, "don't blame me."