Chapter 14 The Place Where Souls Decompose
Laboratory Number Five did not announce its horror with screams or fresh blood on the walls. It did so with silence. A dense, technical silence—carefully calculated. Kimblee sensed it the moment he crossed the threshold, like an invisible pressure settling in his chest. This was not a place made for life, but for its meticulous disassembly.
The interior was vast, far larger than it appeared from the outside. The ceiling vanished into shadows pierced by suspended white lights—cold, merciless—leaving no room for merciful darkness. The stone floor was covered in human transmutation circles, engraved with near-artistic precision: fine lines, ancient symbols, geometries that spoke of forbidden knowledge and unrestrained ambition. Every circle was occupied. Some intact. Others stained. Some still "active."
Kimblee walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, as if strolling through a gallery. He watched the scientists in white coats moving between tables and chalkboards, recording results with the serenity of those studying plants or minerals. Their faces showed no emotion—only concentration. Pens scratching paper. Vials bubbling. Glass tubes connected to human bodies.
The condemned were there. Some lay motionless, eyes open and empty, like broken dolls abandoned after a failed experiment. Others still breathed. Not all screamed; some no longer had the strength. Several were injected with serums of impossible colors—thick liquids coursing through their veins like conscious poison. Their bodies writhed, bones cracking, flesh adapting to something it was never meant to become. Chimeras in progress. Not monsters yet, but errors that could still beg.
Kimblee observed everything with genuine interest. His gaze was neither cruel nor compassionate. It was curious. Fascinated. Every chemical reaction, every convulsion, every failure felt to him like part of an unfinished symphony. There was no uncontrolled chaos here; there was order. And that made it even more disturbing.
He stopped before a grotesquely stitched body, still warm. The human head lolled at an impossible angle. Kimblee tilted his own in response, as if returning the gesture.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Balance always demands something extra."
"It's not a place many can appreciate," a voice said behind him.
Kimblee turned slowly. Before him stood a middle-aged man—upright posture, weary yet steady gaze. His lab coat was immaculate, almost too clean for such an environment. He did not tremble. He did not hesitate.
"Kimblee," the scientist continued. "I've heard about you. Quite a lot, actually. Come. Let's go to my office. Let's talk for a while."
Kimblee smiled broadly—a sincere, excited smile, like that of a child allowed into a forbidden room.
"With pleasure," he replied.
He followed without resistance, leaving behind the echo of screams and the metallic scent of the laboratory. The office was a violent contrast: orderly, quiet, almost welcoming. Shelves filled with alchemy books, sealed documents, incomplete diagrams. A lamp cast a warm light over the desk, as if attempting to feign humanity.
"A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Marco," Kimblee said, extending his hand. "Solf J. Kimblee."
Marco looked at the hand for a moment. His eyes rested on the transmutation circles tattooed on Kimblee's palms. He showed neither disgust nor acceptance. He simply did not take the hand.
"I prefer not to touch instruments," he replied coldly.
Kimblee chuckled softly and withdrew his hand, unoffended.
"Understandable."
Marco sat down and gestured to the chair across from him.
"The Philosopher's Stone you used," he said without preamble, "was created in these laboratories."
Kimblee settled in, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes gleamed.
"So it wasn't a myth," he said. "I always thought alchemy needed something more… something alive."
"It's not a myth," Marco affirmed. "It's a product. An expensive one. It's created with human souls."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was respectful. Kimblee inclined his head, thoughtful, as if savoring the information.
"Then I myself have been proof of its success," he commented. "I've seen its power. I've felt it."
Marco did not smile.
"And yet, you wasted it."
"No," Kimblee corrected calmly. "I used it as it should be used. Every tool has a purpose, Doctor."
Marco studied him intently.
"You're different from other alchemists," he said at last. "You don't deny the price. You don't pretend to be moral."
Kimblee leaned back in the chair, satisfied.
"Morality is an excuse the weak use to sleep peacefully," he replied. "Your research, Doctor Marco… is fascinating."
Marco briefly averted his gaze toward the wall, where an incomplete diagram of the Philosopher's Stone was pinned with needles.
"This is only the beginning," he said. "And you, Kimblee, still have a role to play."
Kimblee smiled—slowly, broadly, almost gratefully.
"So," he thought, "this place isn't a prison… it's a prelude."
And deep within the laboratory, among circles and shattered souls, Kimblee felt something close to nostalgia. Not for the lives lost, but for the certainty that the world—even in its purest cruelty—could still surprise him.
(End of Chapter)