Chapter1 : The Music That Still Plays
The roar did not cease.
Distant explosions shook the air like a diseased pulse; each detonation was followed by the dry echo of gunfire, a chaotic symphony that seeped through even the thick walls of the headquarters. The smell of gunpowder and burned metal mixed with smoke creeping through the cracks, saturating the air with a war that refused to die.
Inside the barracks, two commanders of the Amestrian militia argued over a table covered in maps stained with ink and dried blood. Their voices overlapped, heavy with exhaustion, frustration, and restrained rage.
—The Ishvalan resistance lines are collapsing —one of them growled, slamming his fist on the table—. At this rate, the war will be over in less than a year.
—You always say that —the other replied, adjusting his military coat—. And yet every week we bury more men.
Then, amid the distant thunder of bombs, something was heard that did not belong.
A laugh.
Low. Slow. Distorted, as if it did not belong to that place—or that moment.
Both commanders fell silent.
From the darkest corner of the barracks, a shadow began to move, peeling itself away from the wall as if it had been glued there. The flickering light of a lamp revealed glowing red eyes, followed by an exaggerated, unnatural smile that stretched from ear to ear.
It was Solf J. Kimblee.
Chained at the hands and feet, seated in a surprisingly relaxed posture, as if this were not a military headquarters at war, but a theater waiting for the curtain to rise.
—What the hell are you laughing at? —one of the commanders spat, turning toward him—. The war is coming to an end, and you're here with us, Kimblee.
Kimblee tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. His chains clinked softly as he moved.
—I was just wondering… —he said at last, his voice calm, almost gentle— how much longer this war will last.
He lifted his gaze, his eyes shining with unsettling excitement.
—Because the music to my ears… is still playing beautifully.
The second commander clenched his fists, unable to restrain his fury.
—Music?! —he roared—. This is not music, it's a massacre!
You killed innocent civilians… and three of our own soldiers in your last "performance"! That's why you're here. Chained. Awaiting trial.
A heavy silence fell.
Kimblee did not answer immediately.
Instead, his smile widened just a fraction more. Slowly, he turned his head away from them, as if the conversation no longer interested him.
—The most honest sounds —he murmured— are always born from chaos.
The chains chimed softly again as he settled himself, completely indifferent to the hatred-filled stares fixed upon him.
Context
Year: 1908One year before the end of the Ishval War
Solf J. Kimblee—later known as the Crimson Alchemist—had been captured after murdering Ishvalan civilians and three Amestrian soldiers.
He did not resist.
He allowed himself to be captured.
Now, locked inside a military barracks, he awaited his trial with a disturbing patience.
He did not know—or perhaps he did—that very night, Führer King Bradley would walk through those doors to see him with his own eyes.
And when that happened, nothing would ever be the same.
The door closed.
The silence left behind was not absolute; it was tense, charged—like the calm that precedes an execution. Only the distant rumble of the war filtered faintly through, muffled, almost irrelevant.
Solf J. Kimblee lifted his gaze.
His lips curved into that twisted smile that never left his face. There was no surprise in his red eyes—only a nearly cordial recognition, as though he were meeting an old acquaintance again.
—Führer… —he murmured—. I thought you would send someone else to say goodbye.
King Bradley stopped in front of him. His expression was impenetrable, a face carved from discipline and absolute authority. The eyepatch covered one eye, but the other studied Kimblee with surgical coldness.
—Your work is done, Kimblee —he said firmly—. Return what you were entrusted with.
Bradley stepped closer.
—The Philosopher's Stone that was given to you to continue the destruction.
Kimblee cocked his head, feigning thought. The chains rattled softly with the movement.
—The stone? —he replied with false innocence—. It was destroyed.
Then he raised an eyebrow, amused.
—Besides… how do you know about that, Führer?
For a moment, the air inside the barracks seemed to distort.
A pale, unnatural light emerged from nowhere, casting impossible shadows along the walls. From that glow stepped a familiar figure, wearing a mocking smile and eyes full of contempt.
Envy.
Kimblee let out a low laugh when he saw them.
So "Wrath" didn't come in person, he thought.He wouldn't be very pleased to know someone borrowed his form… but there's no need for him to find out.
Envy clicked their tongue, crossing their arms.
—How annoying… —they said—. If you don't have the stone, you're not worth wasting time on.
They turned to leave, but in a sudden movement filled with disdain, Envy rushed forward and delivered a direct kick to Kimblee's face. The impact cracked sharply. Kimblee fell to the side, spitting blood onto the stone floor.
—Pathetic human —Envy spat, looking down at him.
Their eyes gleamed with cruelty as they added:
—I'll come for you tomorrow. I'll make sure what you said is true.
After that, you're going to prison.
Envy turned away. The light surrounding them began to fade, their figure dissolving like a bad nightmare.
Kimblee remained on the ground for a few seconds.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, but his smile remained intact—wider than ever.
—I'll be waiting —he said hoarsely, savoring each word.
The war made itself heard again in the distance.
And in the heart of that barracks—amid chains and promises of punishment—Solf J. Kimblee continued to hear the music.
(End of chapter )