Mokhfat's cold gaze swept across the remaining alchemists; the threat in it needed no words. He didn't look at the soldiers—or at Allen. In this room, State Alchemists formed a peculiar class. Their job was to use their talents for the nation—Marcoh and others like him crafted special apparatuses to serve the public rather than fight at the front. One late State Alchemist had even devised a transmutation array to replace coal-burning. In that sense, "State Alchemist" often meant something closer to "scientist."
Those who had already entered the military or the Intelligence Bureau were different. They were still State Alchemists, but more soldier than scholar—obedience was their duty. And Intelligence people were, as ever, treacherous, underhanded, and tight-lipped.
To Mustang, the death of a State Alchemist was like the death of someone he didn't know. Armstrong, scion of an old line, had seen enough darkness not to flinch. As for Allen—much the same.
Mokhfat nodded and resumed the head chair, overlooking one thing: Mustang's ambition—and the hard edge of hunger for power in Allen's eyes.
Seated, Mokhfat flicked a glance at Marcoh. The doctor looked "normal": saddened by a colleague's death, but more numb than mournful, caught in the machinery. From the day he began researching the Philosopher's Stone, Marcoh's life hadn't been his own. Watchers shadowed him in the open and the dark—right down to brazenly assigning a lunatic like the Crimson Alchemist to keep him under close guard.
He studied the room and savored what he saw: fear, with a thread of envy, turned toward him. "I am not a cruel man," he said, "but for the nation's sake, for the people's sake, I must do this. Follow the instructions I've given. Your lives depend on it. Don't go out these days. Stay at headquarters. We'll notify you near the end of the war. Dismissed."
"Dismissed" applied to the State Alchemists, not to the military. Everything he'd said concerned them; nothing addressed the army, so Allen, Mustang, and the others remained. Once the room emptied, Mokhfat set both hands on the table. The level surface began to ripple, as if weird sand-worms writhed beneath the wood. The flat plane heaved and settled into a wooden relief map, precise to reality.
Stripping off his gloves, he pointed to the town closest to HQ, checked his watch, and said, "It's 04:41. At 04:55, assault this village at full force. By 05:15, it must be under complete control. Any problem?"
A foolish question. Asking two human weapons whether they could take an unarmed village on schedule was idiotic.
Mustang and Armstrong both shook their heads. Allen said nothing—he was Special Investigator from Intelligence, not under army command, and kept his autonomy.
Mokhfat nodded, waved a hand. "Gentlemen, then move—for the nation." He paused, lowered his voice. "By order of the Führer: you may use any effective means against the target. This order stands until the end of the Ishval War."
"Any effective means" meant State Alchemists could enter the war directly. Under the continental accords, alchemists generally stayed out of direct combat—their power wasn't something ordinary troops could resist. Take Mustang: his combat alchemy was flame, and flame came in many forms. If he ignited the very air over a battlefield, even if the enemy didn't burn, they'd suffocate. Exaggerated at full scale, perhaps—but on a small scale, entirely possible. Alchemy demanded a price, but Mustang could keep killing until nothing remained—unless the enemy fielded alchemists first, or unless a war's outcome threatened the map itself. Only then did Central discard restraint.
Mustang frowned. Ishvalans were "others," but they were lives. The order was brutal. Armstrong, by contrast, was thrilled—the most faithful soldier of a soldiering house, eager to use strength to suppress those who opposed unification.
Seeing their faces, Allen felt, for the first time, a sliver of doubt about partnering with Mustang. Mustang hesitated at the knife's moment—a fatal flaw in a politician. Allen's own brother, tempted by power, hadn't even blinked before sending men to kill him; Mustang, by contrast, worried over strangers.
After a bout of inner war, Mustang's pity for "outsiders" lost to his ambition. Power smothered sympathy. Mokhfat noticed. A thin smile tugged his mouth. If Mustang performed, a major general might come home a lieutenant general. In times like these, stars were cheap—but still, an honor.
It was one more confirmation of Allen's opinion of the Intelligence Bureau: professionals at leverage. How else did they keep so many files on senior officials' affairs and other indiscretions?
"What's your view of this war?" Mokhfat asked, as if offhand.
Allen smiled. "Everything for the nation."
Mokhfat blinked, then hurried to echo, "Everything for the nation."
Watching Allen's back recede, a small ripple ran through the general's thoughts. He'd clawed his way up alone. He could read what others missed—and Allen was not ordinary. Perhaps… it would be wise to cultivate him. That was the one clear thought in Mokhfat's mind.
Engines thundered. As the horizon began to pale, troop trucks rolled out from the temporary headquarters, bound for their first target.