Am I in Attack on Titan with a Death Note???

"Kyur… can I write someone's name in the Death Note and, for the cause of death, say they gave me money, then forgot about it, continued living a normal life, and eventually died of old age?" he asked internally to the Shinigami beside him.

Kyur let out a raspy chuckle, his skeletal fingers twitching slightly. His glowing red eyes fixed on Zen with amusement.

"You really don't get how this thing works, do you?" the Shinigami muttered, his voice carrying that same eerie, otherworldly tone.

Zen frowned. "What do you mean? If I can control someone's actions before they die, why wouldn't this work?"

Kyur tilted his head, his grin widening. "Because the Death Note doesn't work like that, dumbass. You can only control someone for up to 23 days before they die. Writing 'dies of old age' is useless—the Note doesn't extend lifespans. If no specific cause is written, they get the orignal heart attack treatment."

Zen narrowed his eyes. "So, I can't make someone give me money and then just forget about it?"

Kyur snorted. "Nope. They can give you the money, sure, but they'll still have to die within those 23 days. And making them 'forget' isn't possible either—the Death Note controls actions, not memories. The best you can do is write something like, 'John Smith withdraws all his money and hands it to me, then jumps off a bridge at midnight.' That would work."

Zen clicked his tongue in frustration. That complicated things. He needed money, but he couldn't just go around writing names.

Kyur hovered beside him, still grinning. "If you're gonna cheat your way into wealth, at least do it right. You could have someone transfer everything to you and then die in their sleep, or make them write a will giving you everything before their 'accident.' But no loopholes—everyone whose name goes in the Note dies. No exceptions."

Zen exhaled sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Tch. That's not gonna work." There was no point in getting rich if he left behind a trail of suspicious deaths. He needed something more sustainable, something real.

Just as he was brooding over his options, Mikasa's voice cut through his thoughts.

"You're still standing around?" she asked, stepping up beside him. Her sharp gaze flickered over his face, noticing his troubled expression. "I might have found a way to make some money."

Zen raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Mikasa nodded. "There's a transport job. Some merchants need extra hands moving supplies out of Trost tomorrow morning. It pays decently for a day's work, and they don't ask too many questions."

Zen considered it. It wasn't glamorous, but it was something. "Sounds simple enough."

Mikasa crossed her arms. "If you're interested, we need to be there before sunrise. They only take as many people as they need, and there's always competition."

Zen smirked slightly. "Hard labor, huh? Didn't take you for the type to care about money."

Mikasa gave him a look. "We need to eat."

He shrugged. "Fair point."

Kyur snickered beside him, unseen by Mikasa. "Looks like you won't need the Death Note for this one, huh?"

Zen ignored the Shinigami's teasing. Maybe for now, earning money the normal way would be enough.

The morning air was cold, and the streets were already busy with workers gathering near the merchant stalls. Zen and Mikasa stood among them, blending into the crowd of rough-looking men and eager hands willing to do whatever work was available.

A burly merchant eyed them both, skepticism in his gaze. "You two sure you can handle heavy lifting?"

Mikasa gave a small nod. "We'll do the job."

Zen, on the other hand, scoffed. "Just tell us where to start."

The merchant grunted, jerking a thumb toward a stack of crates. "Fine. Load these onto the carts. No breaks until you're done."

Zen exhaled sharply and got to work. The crates were heavier than they looked, filled with grain, tools, and supplies bound for Trost. It didn't take long for the strain to set in—his muscles burned, sweat formed on his brow—but he pushed through.

Mikasa, as expected, barely looked fazed.

Kyur, floating nearby with an amused grin, chuckled. "Hard work, sore muscles, no shortcuts… Tch. And here I thought you wanted an easy life."

Zen ignored him, focused on the job.

A week passed.

Zen and Mikasa had settled into a routine, waking up before dawn and heading out to work. The transport job was exhausting—hauling crates, loading wagons, and moving supplies between merchants—but it paid well enough. Over time, they had earned enough to live sustainably, at least for now.

The cheap inn they had been staying at was no longer just a place to sleep—it had become their base. They could afford meals without worry, and for the first time in a while, Zen didn't have to stress over survival.

He sat on the edge of his cot, rolling a coin between his fingers. "Not bad for a week's work," he muttered.

Mikasa, sitting near the window, nodded. "We can keep this up. Maybe even find something better later."

Kyur, who had been quiet for a while, finally spoke up. "Look at you two. Hardworking, honest citizens." He cackled. "How boring."

Zen shot the Shinigami a glance. "Tch. You got a problem with that?"

Kyur grinned, his glowing eyes flickering. "Nope. Just wondering how long it'll take before you get tired of this and start using the Note again."

Zen ignored him and stood up. "Come on, we should get back."

Soon, they returned to their room, and inside, Carla was preparing food. The smell of freshly cooked stew filled the air, making Zen realize just how hungry he was.

"Hmm… where's Eren?" he asked, stepping inside.

Carla let out a small sigh, shaking her head as she stirred the pot. "He's out again… watching the Survey Corps train, most likely."

Zen raised an eyebrow. "Still obsessed with joining them, huh?"

Mikasa, who had just taken a seat at the table, remained quiet, her expression unreadable.

Carla frowned, glancing at Zen. "You know how he is. No matter what I say, he won't listen. He keeps talking about wanting to go beyond the walls, like it's his destiny or something."

"Hmm," Zen muttered.

As his gaze shifted to Mikasa, he noticed something odd. Despite days of heavy lifting and exhausting work, she didn't look tired at all. Her posture was steady, her breathing calm—almost like she hadn't exerted herself in the slightest.

"...How are you so strong, Mikasa? After all that work, you don't even seem fazed."He still asked thought he already knew why.

Mikasa blinked, then looked at him as if the question had never occurred to her. "I'm used to it," she said simply.

"That's not normal. Most people would be exhausted by now."

Carla smiled slightly, setting a bowl in front of Mikasa. "She's always been like that. Even as a child, she was strong—stronger than most adults."