Only now did Allen really start to study the woman before him. In a world where the strong preyed on the weak, most men judged women by face and figure. Allen wasn't that vulgar—at most, he looked at the face.
And that quick look did raise a flag: a blue military greatcoat, gleaming service boots, a holster on the belt—standard military issue. The uniform's severity didn't hide the elegant lines beneath; if anything, it made her look cleaner and sharper. Out of the corner of his eye, Allen flicked a glance past her to the man who'd just spoken.
Same uniform, but more stars and stripes on the shoulders than the woman had. The polished boots matched, the pressed coat set off a well-kept frame. Only the skin was a little too pale, lending a touch of softness. Fine features, medium-length hair falling across his brow. Allen's gaze slid down and stopped on the man's hand—more precisely, on the white glove: a transmutation circle, drawn in red.
Allen's pupils tightened. The crooked smile on his face froze a beat, then returned.
"You're the Flame Alchemist?"
The man had clocked Allen's every small movement, and soldiers with rifles were already massing behind him. He raised a hand and barked, "This isn't your business. Fall back!"
"Yes, sir! But… Major Mustang, Second Lieutenant Riza—" the staff sergeant faltered. Their own superior was being held at gunpoint; if word of this spread, there went promotions and pensions.
Major Mustang's face softened. He could tell the man holding Riza at gunpoint didn't mean real harm—more a "prank" than a threat. Besides, Riza's temper could be awful; she had a habit of pointing guns at people's heads. Mustang himself had stared down her barrel the first time they met. And when Allen asked if he was an alchemist, Mustang had guessed the man was likely an alchemist too—the small circle on his gloves wasn't something just anyone understood.
"Stand down. He's not hostile, and he's not someone you can handle anyway." When Mustang finished, the staff sergeant hesitated, then waved the squad back. Dozens of soldiers lowered their weapons and stepped aside. Mustang glanced at the ring of spectators—most wore gold and silver. The government's iron hand was famous; only people with connections dared to stand and watch. There wasn't much he could do. He was only a major; there might be a colonel or even a major general in the crowd. In wartime, colonels and major generals weren't exactly rare commodities.
"I offer my sincerest apology for my subordinate's offense. Would you be willing to lower your weapon?"
Since Mustang had offered him a way out, Allen took it with a smile. Starting a fight with someone powerful before he'd even set foot in the government would make life ugly. He nodded. The pistol in his hand spun through a few flashy flips and slid cleanly back into the holster at Riza Hawkeye's waist. The move was so smooth the onlookers erupted in cheers, and the soldiers' eyes lit up. In this world people weren't bored—guns were for killing. Few had thought you could play them like toys.
Freed from immediate danger, Riza yanked back the hand Allen had been gripping and snapped a sweeping kick. Allen chuckled, stepped back, and answered with a kick of his own. A dull thud—and Riza dropped to a half crouch, eyes watering, clutching her now-swollen leg, glaring daggers at Allen.
Allen's eyebrows hopped; the teasing look on his face made Riza grind her teeth.
Mustang's calm expression fell. He knew exactly what kind of person Riza was. She'd stood by him from staff sergeant to major and would follow him to the pinnacle of power. She would not let this pass. His voice turned severe: "I suspect you're an Ishvalan spy. You've endangered a government officer and attempted to incite terror. You are under arrest."
At that, not only did Allen's expression change—every spectator turned and ran. In wartime, getting linked to Ishval meant losing a few layers of skin even with the best connections. And the Führer was famously upright; if you crossed national interests, he'd put even his own flesh and blood on the gallows.
"Clear the area!"
Mustang gave the order. The soldiers blinked, then surged forward with weapons raised, driving back the crowd and leaving a vacuum around the major.
Allen's face went cold. Played—just like that. The sunny look drained away, and the chill that replaced it made hearts skip. Half-crouched, Riza scrambled to Mustang's side, drew her sidearm again, and aimed at Allen's head.
"Planning to resist, are you?" Mustang frowned. Allen's unruffled calm made him uneasy. If the man was an alchemist, things could get ugly. State Alchemists were the government's hounds precisely because their killing power was terrifying; their missions skewed toward pure slaughter.
But when Allen turned fully, Mustang's heart lurched. He'd seen the mark on Allen's shoulder—a sigil of the Homunculi, the Ouroboros—emblem of undying flesh.
Before Mustang could speak, the flagstones at Allen's feet bucked free. A fan of stone spikes erupted, arcing toward Mustang. Allen wasn't a good man. He hadn't been one in his previous life, and with this body—this power—no one was turning a bad man saint. That was something only a hack novelist would write.
Mustang yanked Riza behind him and snapped his gloved right hand. The instant the stone lances were about to reach them, tongues of flame appeared and swallowed them whole. That was how the Flame Alchemist fought.
At the same time, Mustang frowned. Putting aside that Homunculi weren't supposed to transmute at all, Allen hadn't even moved—and there wasn't a single transmutation circle to be seen. No lines on his bare upper body, none etched on his trousers, nowhere.
Allen's lips curved, a ghost of a smile. A heartbeat later, the air filled with a keening whistle. Mustang's face tightened. An alchemist could draw many arrays, but when it came to lethal offense, most relied on their specialty—using anything else meant swapping in other circles first.
No time to think it through. Mustang snapped again. Explosions blossomed around him. The blasts didn't just fade; they pulled a curtain of fire into being, a ring that wrapped him and began to burn hot.
A spark lit in Mustang's mind. He understood at once: that whistle wasn't wind.
It was pure oxygen.