Chapter 39 Beneath the Shadow of What Burned
Kimblee watched the sky through the train window as it began to slow. The clouds drifted low and heavy, as if carrying secrets they refused to release. He took a deep breath. The smell of hot iron from the rails mixed with coal hanging in the air—harsh, industrial, violent. He smiled.
"I'm going to miss this in a few days," he murmured. "But at least for now, I can enjoy it."
The train screeched to a stop. Central City rose before him—imposing, orderly, falsely perfect. Kimblee stepped down calmly, adjusting his jacket over the still-fresh bandages. Every step reminded him of his wounds, but also of something far more important: he was still alive. And as long as he was, the world would have to endure him.
He hadn't gone even a block when a child's voice cut through the urban murmur.
"Kimblee."
He stopped.
Standing before him was Selim Bradley. A small boy, smiling, immaculate. Too immaculate. Kimblee looked him up and down, appraising him with a mix of amusement and irritation.
"Kid," he said, "are you lost?"
Selim tilted his head innocently.
"Not my problem," Kimblee added, brushing past him without another word.
Selim's smile widened.
The shadows stretched.
Before Kimblee could take his next step, something cold and viscous seized his ankles—then his legs, then his torso. Shadows burst from the ground, the walls, even the spaces between the light. They coiled around his body like living serpents, immobilizing him completely.
"How rude," Selim said softly as he walked toward him. "Father asked me to guide you."
Kimblee laughed, even while restrained.
"So it's Pride, then?" he said. "I should've known. No one else smiles like that while holding an invisible knife to your throat."
The shadows loosened just enough to let him move.
"I'm here to show you the place where you need to eliminate the evidence," Pride continued, his tone almost instructional.
Kimblee raised his hands in exaggerated surrender.
"Alright, alright. You've got me. Lead the way, kid."
Pride turned on his heel and started walking. Kimblee followed, alert, feeling the shadows brush against him constantly—a reminder that he wasn't there by choice, but by mutual convenience. They moved through increasingly silent streets, leaving the bustling center behind for a half-abandoned district where buildings seemed to watch them through darkened windows.
They stopped in front of a large gray concrete structure with no visible markings—an administrative building long forgotten, or so it seemed. Pride pushed the door open effortlessly.
"Here," he said.
The interior smelled of dampness and old disinfectant. They descended a narrow staircase, their footsteps echoing like blunt blows. With each step, the air grew thicker. Heavier. Kimblee frowned. He recognized the smell.
Old death.
They reached the lower level. The lights snapped on, revealing the horror.
Corpses.
Dozens. Perhaps more.
Human and non-human bodies lay in disarray—some on gurneys, others directly on the floor. Too many limbs. Eyes where they didn't belong. Skin crudely stitched together. Failed chimera experiments, abandoned like waste. Dried blood stained the walls, the floor, even the ceiling in irregular splatters.
Kimblee whistled, impressed.
"Well now," he said. "This is a serious lack of housekeeping."
His eyes swept the room with surgical speed. He counted. Counted again.
"Six are missing," he added. "Interesting."
Pride didn't respond.
Kimblee smiled.
"Some of these chimeras…" he continued. "I'll be seeing them again, won't I? With Greed, perhaps. Down the line."
The shadows stirred uneasily, but Pride didn't deny it.
"Not your concern," he said. "Just erase this."
Kimblee stepped forward, pulling small containers from his jacket. Gunpowder. He scattered it carefully around the bodies, drawing invisible patterns to anyone who didn't know how to look. His movements were precise—almost ritualistic.
"You know," he remarked, "I'm always surprised by how careless you can be. So much planning, so much secrecy… and then you leave this rotting beneath the city."
He finished tracing the transmutation circle with the powder—a simple, elegant, efficient design.
"Well," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Time to work."
He placed his right hand on the floor.
The spark was immediate.
The explosion shook the building to its foundations. It wasn't chaotic—it was absolute. Fire bloomed like a crimson flower, devouring flesh, metal, and stone alike. The screams that never existed were swallowed by the roar of the blast. Walls gave way. The ceiling collapsed.
From outside, the building seemed to take one last breath before collapsing in on itself.
Kimblee emerged walking through the ashes, his uniform coated in black dust, the air thick with burned blood. He inhaled deeply, without disgust.
Behind him, the shadows withdrew.
"Done," he said. "There's nothing left that can speak."
Pride watched him with a calm smile.
"Good work, Kimblee."
Kimblee looked up at Central City's sky, now stained by a column of smoke slowly dispersing.
"Yeah," he replied. "I suppose it was."
And he kept walking, leaving behind what should never have existed.
(End of Chapter)