The dim light of dusk filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the Scout Regiment headquarters. Dust floated lazily in the golden hue, settling quietly on the endless stacks of parchment, maps, and casualty reports that cluttered Commander Erwin Smith’s desk. The room was silent, save for the distant creak of floorboards as soldiers moved about the aging building.

Erwin sat back in his chair, shoulders stiff beneath the weight of his uniform and heavier still with the burden of command. A map of Wall Rose lay open before him, annotated in the sharp, clean strokes of his own hand. He reached for his quill until a soft knock broke the stillness.

“Commander, this just arrived from Central.” A courier said, handing over a sealed envelope.

Erwin gave a curt nod, dismissing the boy. He turned the envelope over in his hands, the wax bore the seal of the Military Administration. Erwin studied the wax seal before breaking it open with a letter opener. Another rejection, he assumed. Another reminder that the brass considered the Scouts a reckless, costly inconvenience.

Commander Erwin Smith,

By decree of the Military Administration, you are hereby informed that a private donor, whose identity has been withheld at their request, has made a significant financial contribution to the Scout Regiment. The donation is unrestricted in its use and left to your command’s judgment.

For the betterment of mankind within the Walls.

— Office of Military Finances

Erwin reread the words once, twice. His brow furrowed slightly not in confusion, but contemplation. Donations to the Scouts were rare. Even rarer were ones without strings attached.

“A private donor... to the Scout Regiment?” The words hung in his mind, surreal and unwelcome in their strangeness. For so many years, he'd known only refusal—requests denied, budgets slashed, support withheld. Every appeal for supplies, manpower, or even basic acknowledgment had been met with a tight-lipped "No."

But this...

This was a "Yes."

For a moment, Erwin didn't move. His eyes flicked toward the window, watching the sky darken over the scout headquarters, the edge of his expression unreadable.

“Why now?” He murmured aloud, voice low. “And who would give… to us?”

He leaned back slowly in his chair, the letter still open in his hand. For the first time in what felt like years, Erwin Smith did not feel like a man pushing a boulder up a hill alone.

A rare, foreign feeling settled in his chest—not quite hope, but something close.