Chapter 20 Imprisoned Souls
The iron door slammed shut behind him with a dry, final sound—one Kimblee knew all too well. It wasn't the thunder of an explosion or the roar of a cannon, but it carried its own weight, its own purpose: to separate the world of men from the world of cages. Even so, Kimblee smiled.
"Tell me something," he asked casually as he walked down the corridor under guard. "How long has it been since the war ended?"
One of the guards hesitated for a second before answering, as if unsure why a prisoner would care.
"A year and three months," he finally said. "It's early 1911."
Kimblee let out a short laugh.
"Interesting…" he murmured. "In this dying hole, you never know things like that. Time rots in here."
They reached the cell. It was narrow and cold, its walls stained by dampness and years of accumulated despair. The metal cot creaked as Kimblee sat down, stretching his arms as if he had returned home after a long journey.
"I'll behave for a while," he said without looking back. "At least until the world needs noise again."
Shadows shifted softly around him. Pride stood nearby, watching him closely, as if trying to read something beyond that permanent smile. Envy leaned against the wall, looking bored, idly playing with the shape of his fingers.
Pride spoke just before leaving.
"Tell me something, Kimblee," he said quietly. "Do you regret everything you did in that war?"
The question hung in the air like an uncomfortable echo. Kimblee slowly raised his head. His eyes shone with a calm, almost cheerful intensity.
"Regret?" he repeated. "About what, exactly?"
He stood and took a couple of steps inside the cell, as if pacing an invisible stage.
"I enjoyed it," he continued. "Every second. The drums of the cannons, the rhythm of the rifles, the perfect crescendo of explosions… and the screams." His smile widened. "Ah, the screams. Nothing harmonizes better with fire."
He stopped in front of the bars and looked straight at Pride.
"I eagerly await the next war," he said without a trace of irony. "Because they always free me when the world decides to destroy itself again."
For an instant, something like a smile crossed Pride's face.
"You won't have to wait that long, human," he replied.
The shadows withdrew. The homunculi left the room without another word, leaving Kimblee alone with the silence and his thoughts.
The echo of their footsteps faded, and the prison resumed its slow breathing, like a sleeping beast.
Kimblee sat back down on the cot and let out a satisfied sigh.
"Who would've thought," he murmured, "that this stupid circus trick would get me out of so many scrapes."
He brought a hand to his throat and, with an almost natural motion, regurgitated the Philosopher's Stone. The crimson gem glowed faintly in the dim cell, pulsing like a чуж heart. Kimblee held it before his face, studying it with devotion.
"So small," he said. "And yet, so loud."
The prison slowly faded around him.
The stone shone brighter, and the walls seemed to pull away. Kimblee felt the world distort, the boundaries between reality and his mind dissolving. Then he saw them.
Souls.
They ran in every direction, screaming, pleading, trying to escape a fate that no longer belonged to them. Some looked at him with hatred, others with fear, others simply with exhaustion. Kimblee walked among them without touching them, like a spectator in the middle of an endless play.
"Silence," he whispered.
But there was none.
The screams blended together, overlapping, forming a chaotic symphony. Kimblee closed his eyes and smiled, letting the sound wash over him.
He remembered Ishval. Red dust rising with every explosion. Houses collapsing like sandcastles. Bodies falling one after another, without order or justice. He remembered the sky stained with smoke, the fire lighting up the night, and how—for a moment—everything seemed to make sense.
"You were running," he said to the souls. "Always running. As if there were somewhere to run to."
The figures tried to pass through him, but they couldn't. They were trapped in the stone, trapped in a bargain they never chose. Kimblee studied their faces with curiosity, not guilt.
"Don't look at me like that," he continued. "I only listened to the music."
The vision began to fade. The souls dissolved into the crimson light until they vanished completely. Kimblee opened his eyes.
The cell surrounded him once more. Cold. Silent. Empty.
He put the stone away carefully, like someone hiding a forbidden treasure, and lay back on the cot, folding his arms behind his head.
"Peace…" he murmured. "That's what they call this."
He closed his eyes.
He knew the peace wouldn't last. It never did. The world always broke again, and when it did, someone would remember his name. Someone would open his cage.
Until then, Kimblee waited.
Smiling.
(End of Chapter)