"Aruba, playing with mud in a cave, it's not big, no home on the island, Aruba!"
Singing, flipping through books—oddly satisfying.
Books held beauty and riches, they say.
Rein read for days. No beauties or gold, but his restless heart settled.
Days blurred—he'd torn the "bachelor pad" apart, missing nothing.
No key. The owner must've taken it when they left.
First few days, he raged, tempted to bash the stone door with his head. After "dying" so much, he got used to it.
He switched gears: "This guy was a carving pro—turned a cave into this. If I learn a trick or two, maybe I can chisel the door open."
So he cracked Thirty-Six Stone Carving Styles.
A few pages in—yawns. Old habit: serious books knocked him out.
No phone to distract him here.
Sighing, he paced, topped off the lamp oil.
He had to admire himself sometimes.
Titans could stay awake under constant light, but reading broke that rule—lulling him to sleep.
Sitting again, high school flashbacks hit.
"Forget it—something fun."
He grabbed Humanity's Fall from the novels.
"Nice title—gotta be good! Let's see this 'fall'!"
Serious books fogged his brain; this stuff? Eyes wide, hooked.
No sleep or food to skip—Pure Titans don't need it.
He was built for hardcore study now.
If he'd had this for college exams, he wouldn't have bombed so bad.
Time slipped away.
He polished off the novels, then the art books.
Favorites got multiple reads.
Settling down, reading wasn't torture. He almost forgot about escaping.
Lamp oil held strong—plenty left.
When the fun stuff ran dry, he hit the rest.
Thirty-Six Stone Carving Styles—twice through. No chisel, no tools—bare hands were a pipe dream.
He skimmed Raising Pigs on the Island and Postpartum Sow Care, marveling at this Titan's talents.
Theory only—no practice—but it stuck in his head.
One book he could use: Playing with Mud in a Cave.
The cave had a mud pit!
Northeast corner—a square stone hollow.
Soil inside, wet from dripping ceiling cracks, overgrown with grass.
The owner planned it—mud stayed moist, never dry.
Rein yanked the weeds, starting his mud era.
Bottles first, then little animals.
Clumsy blobs turned lifelike.
Days, years—sponging up the book's wisdom.
Outside, beyond the falls, the mad dog squatted by the stone door.
It'd guarded there forever—time lost meaning.
Without Rein's break-in, it'd wait endlessly.
For that person.
Now, Rein was in that person's room. Furious, it roared—stuck outside.
Days, maybe years passed. It couldn't wait—reached into a stone lamp box by the door.
Out came a shiny gold thing.
A key—round head, long handle!
It scratched its head.
Didn't know how to use it!
Back in the box it went. It crouched, waiting.
Rein missed it—he'd choke on blood if he knew.
The key he craved—outside.
A stone door apart, two drifted in time's river.
Seasons spun on Paradis.
Wind blew from the sea, past gulls, treetops, grass—over the walls.
It brushed Mikasa's scarf, Annie's bangs, Eren's coat.
Gentle, noisy.
847 passed. 848 too.
849—mud king Rein snapped up in the cave.
A gut feeling hit—something big was coming.
In the pit, a "person" stood.
A mud figure—vivid, perfect.
Since starting it, his heart raced oddly.
Days back, he'd sculpted everything—lacking real models, they felt off.
The book said mud's peak was sculpting "spirit"—breathing life into clay.
No living reference but himself.
He grabbed a pot from the kitchen, caught water from the drip.
In lamplight, his reflection rippled—godlike.
He'd sculpt himself.
Days later, it took shape. Today—the face.
Hands and feet were easy—face was the soul.
Nine-tenths of spirit lived there.
Mastery hung on this!
"Hm, face could be sharper."
"Eyes bigger."
"Broad forehead—kingly vibe."
"Almost done—just eyes."
He rolled a tiny clay ball, fingers weaving small eyes.
"Defiant streak!" He pressed them in.
Instantly—a jolt from above smashed his spine. No time to react—he blacked out.
In the stone room, lamplight danced.
The finished mud figure glowed—striking, alive.
Its eyes seemed to shine.