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With Mangekyo, I Escaped Konoha To Other Worlds: Extra Chapter
🕑 Added 2025-03-16 17:08:17 +0000 UTCThe smell of damp wood and cheap soup filled the small, dimly lit room. Inside, a dark-haired female shifted in her cot, wincing as pain fla
The smell of damp wood and cheap soup filled the small, dimly lit room. Inside, a dark-haired female shifted in her cot, wincing as pain flared in her legs—phantom sensations in limbs she could no longer use. The straw mattress beneath her was thin, barely offering relief from the cold floor of the house.
The room was small, barely large enough to fit a bed, a rickety wooden table, and a single chair. The walls were old, the plaster cracked and peeling in places, exposing the aged wooden framework beneath. A single window let in dim light, its shutters slightly askew, allowing a cold draft to slip through.
She turned her head slightly, listening to the voices outside. The Trost district was restless as always. Soldiers marched through the streets, vendors shouted their prices, and the distant cries of hungry children echoed through the alleyways.
It had been Four years since Wall Maria fell. Four years since her world crumbled around her.
At first, she had refused to believe it. She had survived by some cruel twist of fate, pulled from the rubble of her ruined home, only to wake up days later in a crowded infirmary filled with the wounded and dying.
They had told her she was lucky. That most of the others had died. That her injuries could have been worse.
She had wanted to scream at them.
But what was the point?
In those early days, she had clung to the hope that Eren and Mikasa would return, that they would realize how foolish it was to throw themselves into the military and come back to her. But the letters that came told a different story.
They were pushing forward. Fighting. Surviving.
While she was trapped in this small room, dependent on the kindness of others just to live.
She exhaled, reaching toward the wooden box on the table beside her bed. Inside were the letters—carefully folded, some worn at the edges from how often she had read them. She pulled out the most recent one, written in Eren’s messy, barely legible scrawl.
----
A Letter from Eren
Mom,
I know you’ll probably scold me for not writing sooner. I’m sorry. Training has been tough, but I’m getting stronger. Mikasa keeps acting like my babysitter, but I can handle myself. We’re learning so much… and soon, we’ll be ready. Soon, we’ll be able to fight back. You’ll see.
I promise you, one day, I’ll kill them all.
Don’t worry about me. Just focus on getting better.
Love, Eren.
-----
Carla’s fingers tightened around the paper.
She didn’t need to see his face to know what kind of expression he had worn while writing this. She could picture it perfectly—the same burning intensity in his eyes, the same stubborn determination that had always made him reckless.
She didn’t want him to get stronger.
She didn’t want him to fight back.
She just wanted him to live.
But what could she say? She had tried writing back, telling him to reconsider, to think about what he was doing. His responses had grown shorter, more distant.
He wasn’t coming back.
And Mikasa…
Carla reached for the other letter in the box, written in much neater, more precise handwriting.
-----
A Letter from Mikasa
Carla,
I hope you are doing well. We haven’t been able to write often, but I want you to know that I am watching over Eren. He is reckless, as always, but I won’t let anything happen to him. I promise.
Please take care of yourself. We will visit when we can.
Mikasa
------
Short. To the point. No unnecessary reassurances.
That was just like her.
Carla traced a finger over the ink, exhaling slowly.
Mikasa’s words should have been comforting. But they weren’t. Because Carla knew the truth. Mikasa wasn’t just watching over Eren—she was following him. Into battle, into danger. She had tied her fate to his, and there was nothing Carla could do to stop her.
And that was the most painful part of all.
Her hand gripped the thin blanket covering her legs. Eren. Mikasa. They were out there, wearing military uniforms, carrying swords and rifles, preparing for a war she could no longer fight against. She had begged them not to go. But what could she do? A mother without the strength to stand…
The door creaked open.
“Carla,” a familiar voice called.
She turned her head and forced a smile. Hannes stood in the doorway, his expression strained but warm. In his hands, he carried a small basket—probably a few extra rations he had smuggled past the quartermasters. He had been doing this since the beginning, stopping by whenever he could, bringing supplies, checking on her.
It was the only reason she had survived this long.
Hannes set the basket on the small wooden table beside her. “I managed to get some bread and a bit of stew. It’s not much, but it’s warm.”
Carla exhaled, feeling a mix of gratitude and guilt. “You shouldn’t keep doing this, Hannes. You have your own people to take care of.”
“Yeah, well, they’re not you,” he muttered, pouring a bowl of stew and handing it to her. His eyes flicked to her thin arms, the way her hands trembled slightly as she took the bowl. “You’ve lost weight again.”
“I’ve always been this slim.” She forced a small laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Hannes sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Have you… heard from Eren or Mikasa?”
Carla nodded slowly. “They wrote last month. They’re doing well.” That was a lie. The last letter had been brief, full of the usual reassurances. We’re training hard. Don’t worry about us. We’ll visit when we can. But she knew the truth. They were fighting for their lives.
Hannes hesitated before speaking again. “You know… if things had gone differently, I could’ve taken them in. Could’ve helped more.”
Carla’s smile faded. She understood what he meant. Why didn’t he take in Eren and Mikasa? It wasn’t as simple as guilt. The military was stretched thin, and food was scarce. Two extra mouths to feed would have been a burden.
Not just that, Hannes was a Garrison soldier originally stationed in Wall Maria where he originated from.
It had been Four years and Wall Maria was gone. Now, all soldiers had to live in the cramped barracks if they didn't already have places to stay.
It could be said that Just like her, Hanne's living conditions weren't all that great either. With his unrelenting help all these years, he couldn't gather enough money to change that fact.
This was just one obstacle. But more than that…
“They wouldn’t have stayed,” Carla said softly. “Eren wouldn’t have accepted it. He wanted to fight. To kill Titans.” Even more, he wouldn't have accepted Hannes.
Perhaps in any other way, but not like that. Not when they just lost Grisha, Even if it wasn't like that at all.
Hannes scowled. “That damn kid. Just like his father…”
Carla’s grip tightened around the bowl. Grisha… If he had been here, things would have been different. Maybe he would have convinced Eren to stay. Maybe he would have found a way to heal her. Maybe…
But there were no maybes anymore. It had been four years, and Carla had long since given up hope on the possibility of her husband's return.
He wasn't coming back. Deep down, she knew it.
Carla placed the bowl down, staring at the flickering candlelight. “I just want them to live, Hannes. That’s all I ever wanted.”
Hannes sat beside her, resting his arms on his knees. “They will.”
She wished she could believe that.
Eren was hell-bent on joining the Survey Corps, to fight Titans.
As his mother, how could she not worry? No one needed to spell it out that the boy was going to get himself killed.
The Survey Corps was a Military Regiment that swallowed soldiers whole and rarely spat out the bones. Carla was afraid, afraid that one day, she would wake up to hear that her only son had died in the hands of what most likely killed her husband as well.
The Titans.
Eren's hotheaded, impulsive and brash behavior didn't help things either. He was so focused on what he wanted, never seeming to worry about how his actions would affect others.
For her, These past four years had been the worst part of her life.
Both physically and Emotionally.
She was paralyzed from the waist down.
And while it had saved her from being sent alongside the other refugees in the Operation to retake Wall Maria in year 846, it had also cut short the vast majority of her options.
It was impossible for a cripple to find good work. No one would be willing to take her in.
For three years, she lived in the refugee center, crowded alongside many other unfortunate souls. Food was scarce, the environment was unsanitary, and privacy was a problem.
All sorts of violence, killings, and arguments abounded. Living in such an environment and forced to rely on government rations, her figure had grown extremely thin. Her skin colored an unhealthy pale, her dark hair losing its luster.
If not for Hannes who helped her rent this one-room apartment a year ago, her story might currently be different.
In her current state, with her current life, Carla Jaeger was on the verge of a total breakdown. The only thing keeping her from committing suicide being Eren, Mikasa and Hanne's timely help.
If something happened to Eren, then she'd lose the will to live. It couldn't be helped as she had already lost too much.
Looking at her sorrowful figure, Hannes let out a heavy sigh.
“Believe in him, Carla. I know that kid.” He said while rising to his feet.
“Trust me, the little runt's too stubborn to die before accomplishing his dream. For now, just be ready to be there for him when he does.”
Carla was stunned at first before letting out a smile. “I see. Thank you … Hannes.” It was a genuine one this time.
He returned it.
“Well, I'd better be off. The soldiers at the barracks are probably going to be working overtime tonight. Just thought I should stop by.”
He uttered approaching the door, it creaked open.
“Goodnight, Carla ….”
The door closed. The room returned to silence with his departure. Not long after, Carla let out a sigh before turning her gaze towards the window.
“Eren. … Mikasa … I'm waiting for you. Please be safe …”
-----
Unknown POV
Meanwhile,
Halfway North to Orvud, Stohess District.
The night was dark and restless. A cold wind slithered through the trees, rustling the brittle leaves that clung stubbornly to the branches. The moon, veiled by shifting clouds, cast faint, flickering light over the ruins of what had once been a gathering place—a traffickers’ den turned slaughterhouse.
The structure stood abandoned now, its wooden frame worn and rotting from years of neglect. Yet tonight, it had hosted a gathering. A gathering that had ended in carnage.
Blood pooled across the ground, sinking into the dirt. Corpses lay scattered—some slumped over crates, others crumpled where they had fallen mid-flight. Their expressions, frozen in terror, told the tale of their final moments.
And somewhere beyond this silent massacre, a lone man remained.
Crouched low behind a fallen beam, breath shallow, eyes darting wildly between the motionless bodies and the shadows that stretched unnaturally in the night.
His name was irrelevant, yet his identity here carried a certain significance that would end in a short one minute.
That significance being that among those In this operation today, he was the sole survivor.
He didn’t know how it had happened. One moment, laughter, and conversation had filled the air. The next—screams, gurgling chokes, and the sharp whistle of death cutting through flesh. It had all happened too fast.
Too fast for it to be human.
Everyone else was dead.
His fingers clenched around the hilt of a dagger, the only thing between him and whatever had done this.
No. No use.
It wouldn’t matter. A blade wouldn’t stop a demon. In that case, his only hope was escape.
His gaze flickered toward the horse-drawn cart parked just beyond the treeline. If he could just make it there—if he could get onto that carriage, drive as far as possible from this nightmare—
His muscles tensed.
Now.
He lunged from his hiding place, boots slamming against the damp earth as he sprinted toward salvation. His breath came fast, shoulders tight, heart hammering against his ribs. The cart was close—just a few steps away—
Then a root miraculously caught his foot.
'Shit!'
His body lurched forward.
With a sharp gasp, he crashed onto the muddy ground, filth splattering across his clothes. Pain jolted through his knees and palms, but he ignored it, twisting around to check his back, eyes wide in frantic terror.
Nothing.
Only the wind and the darkness of the empty clearing.
Swallowing thickly, he exhaled a shaky breath and turned forward again, scrambling to his feet—
Only to slam into something solid.
The force sent him stumbling back, landing once more in the muck. His head snapped up, vision swimming as he took in the figure before him.
It was a boy.
No, a teenager
Dark hair, pale skin, and eyes—red, glowing in the night like embers from hell.
'His … His eyes …'. The priests were right. Demons do exist.
The trafficker’s breath hitched. His dagger slipped from his fingers. His body trembled.
“Please…” he croaked, throat dry with terror. His hands raised instinctively, shaking as he fumbled for words. “Please, don't kill me! I'll give you anything you want. Money—you can take it all! Just let me go, it's yours!”
'Huh?'
Then, slowly, the boy tilted his head. Eyes questioning as he raised an eyebrow.
“I don't need money.” Those words were equivalent to funeral notes.
The man's heart sank to the pit of his stomach.
“However, I do need you for something else though.”
The trafficker barely had time to flinch before the boy crouched down, crimson eyes locking onto his own.
“I'm tired of running, so I need a chauffeur. From the looks of it, you'll do just fine.”
He hardly had time to process those words when he felt the world spin around him. Everything else shrunk, enveloped in nothing but red.
-----
