Chapter 10 The Twilight of War and the Echo of Flame
Night had fallen over the prison in near-total silence, broken only by the metallic footsteps of guards pacing the corridors and the occasional whisper of shifting chains. The moon peeked through the high windows, casting long, stretched shadows across the stone walls, as if the outside world still remembered the horrors that had taken place. In his cell, Kimblee lay back with his eyes open, staring at the gray ceiling.
That night, the news arrived abruptly: the Ishval War had ended. The year was 1909, and according to official reports, Amestris was at peace once more.
Kimblee smiled—a slow, dangerous smile. The word peace sounded like a cruel joke to someone who had savored every blast, every scream, every carefully calculated death as if they were notes in a musical score. His laughter, silent at first, grew in intensity, echoing against the walls of his cell like an unbreakable refrain, reminding him that even if the war had ended, his own symphony of destruction never would.
That same night, the corridors filled with movement. Militia guards dragged several prisoners out of their cells. Kimblee watched them with a mix of curiosity and restrained amusement. They were all condemned criminals or murderers—men and women whose crimes had sealed their fates. He did not fully understand what was to be done with them, but he didn't need to. Soon, his attention drifted toward memories far more personal, far more his own.
He leaned back, letting memory envelop him.
He recalled the screams of the people of Ishval, the fear in their eyes, the tension in every street, every building swallowed by flames. The chaos had thrilled him, and now, in the stillness of his cell, those memories burned like latent fire beneath his skin. But then his thoughts traveled even further back—to his beginnings, to the days when Solf J. Kimblee had still been a child.
He had been a middle-class boy, intensely curious, with an overwhelming passion for alchemy. From an early age, he was fascinated by ancient and forbidden writings on explosions and destructive transmutations. During his adolescence, he developed a particular interest in explosive alchemy. His pyromaniac nature was no secret to himself; he had started more than one fire, caused chaos in other people's homes, and although nothing was ever conclusively pinned on him, those incidents were early warnings of the obsession to come.
His mother—a loving, devoted woman—never understood the magnitude of what was growing within her son. To her, Kimblee was simply a child with too much energy. His games, his curiosity about fire, were nothing more than childish whims in her eyes. But every spark, every small explosion fed him, pushed him to explore further. With each passing year, his fascination grew, and what began as play became meticulous research into explosions and destructive transmutations.
During his teenage years, Kimblee began experimenting with more complex formulas, mixing reagents and studying the propagation of energy. His obsession was such that, despite the dangers, he developed his own methodology—a way to create precise explosions through alchemy that went beyond what traditional theory taught. The law of Equivalent Exchange imposed limits, but he learned to turn them to his advantage, transforming every small sacrifice into controlled power.
By the age of twenty, his research was complete. Every formula, every transmutation, every calculated explosion was in place. That was when he made his most significant decision: to tattoo the transmutation circles onto the palms of his hands. In doing so, he would always have the ability to create explosions at his disposal, without relying on external materials—on nothing but himself and his own skill. At first, these explosions were weak, constrained by the strict law of Equivalent Exchange, but Kimblee saw infinite potential in them: a future where every blast could be part of a greater symphony, every flame an act of art.
Back in his cell, Kimblee looked once more at his hands, the thin lines of the tattoos faintly illuminated by the moonlight. A smile crossed his face as he remembered the first sparks he had produced, the first small explosions born from his palms. Each memory was an echo of the child he had been, the youth who became a master of destruction, and the man who now watched "peace" from the shadows of a cell—unable to leave, yet still free in spirit.
The world could proclaim peace, armies could rest, but Kimblee knew the true music his ears longed for was still to come. His laughter rose once more in the silence of the night, mingling with the distant murmurs of prisoners and the metallic echoes of the prison.
No matter how tightly he was confined, he was a soul no one could chain—and every scream he had heard, every explosion he had created, still lived within him, stronger than ever.
(End of the Chapter)