After a five-minute drive they reached the staging area at 5:05. The sky was pale as a washed-out bolt of black cloth. Low hills ringed them, patches of scrub forest scattered about. Trucks full of soldiers rolled along a muddy lane, engines whispering; only breath and the faint rasp of air over metal moved in the quiet.
Two li from the village, the column halted. Major General Mokhfat pulled a map from his coat and gathered everyone above master sergeant to assign tasks. Roy Mustang and Second Lieutenant Armstrong sat quietly in a nearby truck; their job wasn't to kill but to supervise. Allen alone drifted up to watch.
Pointing to several marks, Mokhfat said, "Choose your positions. You have ten minutes. In ten, the village must be ours. We're two li out; make your points in three minutes. Combat begins at 5:10. End it within five minutes. Any questions?"
The officers glanced around and nodded. With a sweep of Mokhfat's hand, the company and battalion leaders led their units into the dark like a spill of ants toward the village. Five minutes to take a village with no garrison, by surprise—that wasn't hard. If they couldn't, they could go back to Central for retraining—or forward to the front as fodder.
Watching the rapid march, Mokhfat nodded. Mustang and Armstrong stepped down, straightened their uniforms, and started forward at an easy pace.
The village lay quiet on a hill, a little paradise under the whitening sky. As the troops crept closer, a few dogs barked, then more, until lights kindled one by one and the whole place glowed, voices rising.
On the far hill, Mokhfat frowned—he hadn't expected the sentry dogs to pick up such well-trained men. He turned to Mustang. Mustang snapped his fingers. A bloom of fire burst in the air, a flash that lit the soldiers tucked below the slope.
That was the signal to begin.
The troops surged uphill like a tide. Allen's eyes were keener than most; he saw an Ishvalan at the gate with a hoe in hand, peering down the slope, face twisting with panic as his mouth opened to shout—then a sniper a li out eased the trigger, and the man dropped without a sound.
Good thing Allen had pushed before the op to keep crack shots with large-caliber rifles on standby a li from the target; otherwise the raid might have collapsed at the gate.
Mokhfat cut Allen a sidelong look and tamped down his surprise. In wars with alchemists, snipers had been almost forgotten—what use were they against transmutation?
Allen felt the look, let his mouth curl a hair, and turned back to the field.
Once discovered, the troops moved faster. In moments they crested the low rise. Guns chattered and spat fire; Ishvalans who had grabbed tools or weapons fell. The cries carried far—even to where Allen stood—raw fear and panic strung tight with despair.
Fires started in a few places. In their light, the soldiers' faces twisted; magazines poured out in sheets. This wasn't a slaughter, they told themselves—it was honor. A soldier's honor was a monument built with enemy blood. Orders, at least, were to seize and hold, not to wipe out. Central meant to make this nondescript village a springboard—the first foothold in the East to radiate deeper into Ishval.
Four minutes. Two hundred forty seconds. The last shot cracked just before dawn. Mokhfat led the walk-in, clearly pleased. He raised his wrist in the whitening light: 5:14:31. A rare smile touched his face; he even chuckled, then strode toward the village.
Inside, a wave of meat aroma and the sour stink of scorched fat hit them—both nauseating and oddly hunger-pricking. Shadowing Mustang, Riza Hawkeye had none of her usual edge; fear and disgust flickered in her eyes. She pressed a kerchief to her nose and followed close, unhappy.
Everywhere: soldiers policing the field; Ishvalans sprawled in the dirt, eyes wide and unclosing, some with skin burnt crisp and patches peeled to show slick roasted muscle beneath. Cold crept into the bones.
Most here were soldiers; Allen technically wasn't, but he'd grown up in an old China where people ate people. He didn't retch.
"Report, sir. No KIA. No WIA. Equipment losses roughly twenty percent. Enemy dead, three hundred thirty-nine. Captured, one thousand seven hundred twenty-four; women, children, and elderly about seventy percent. Awaiting orders!"
"Sharp work." Allen studied the twenty-something sergeant major and couldn't help a nod. The young face hadn't seen real war, but madness already smoldered in the eyes. Men like this become generals—or butchers. The road ahead was wide.
Praised by a Special Investigator from the Intelligence Bureau—a unit both inside and above the army—the sergeant major lifted his chin, joy plain on his face against the ruin behind him. Files about him would be on certain desks soon. Promotion would follow.
The higher you climb, the more you kill. Some truths don't change.
Mokhfat was in good spirits too. "Not bad. Tighten up. Tell the boys they have thirty minutes to regroup. Reinforcements arrive at 0600. Then we move on the city thirty li out. Call this your warm-up."
"Yes, sir!"
The young sergeant major sprinted off to push the orders down the line, and everyone else settled into their own private thoughts.