Chapter 22: The Lesson of Fire
Kimblee continued speaking without being prompted, as if the mere act of being listened to were a rarity too delicious to waste. The general remained standing before the cell, the notebook braced against his forearm, trying to maintain a composure that was already beginning to crack.
"Now that you know how my abilities work," Kimblee said in an almost pedagogical tone, "I suggest you try it yourself."
The general looked up at once.
"Here?" he asked, surprised.
"Here, now," Kimblee replied. "Don't worry, you won't blow up the prison. You don't have the imagination for that."
The general hesitated. He glanced at the guards at the far end of the corridor, then fixed his gaze again on Kimblee's hands, still marked by the transmutation circles.
"I'm not an alchemist," he said at last.
"No one is until they try," Kimblee shot back. "Bring your hands together. Imagine the flow. Nothing more."
The general took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and, somewhat clumsily, pressed his palms together. There were no tattooed circles, no complex symbols etched into his skin—only intention and a vague understanding of what he had just heard.
For an instant, nothing happened.
Then, a spark.
A small burst—barely perceptible—flared between his hands. A dry sound, more like a sharp knock than a real explosion. The general snapped his eyes open and took a step back, startled.
"I…" he stammered. "I've never done alchemy before."
Kimblee smiled, satisfied.
"Exactly," he said. "That's the most a normal human could achieve using my system. Without proper circles, without true understanding, without commitment. A spark. A parlor trick."
The general stared at his hands as if they no longer belonged to him.
"But it worked," he murmured.
"It worked because alchemy always responds to intent," Kimblee explained. "The problem is control. Or rather, the lack of it."
He leaned back against the cell wall.
"Using my alchemy is easy," he continued. "Controlling it is another story. Even I don't know how to moderate the explosions with absolute precision. And that…" he smiled with a hint of melancholy, "…that's what I like most."
The general raised his eyes.
"You like not having control?"
"I like that it's unpredictable," Kimblee corrected. "Like me. Fire doesn't ask permission, General. It just happens."
The pencil began moving across the paper again, faster now. The general took a breath before asking his next question.
"Let's talk about Ishval."
Kimblee did not react at once. His smile tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Ishval left a mark," the general went on. "On the country. On the army. Especially on the State Alchemists who were sent as military assets. They were used to exterminate the population. What happened there was a civil war… and a genocide."
The silence grew dense.
Kimblee closed his eyes for a second—not to remember with pain, but with a kind of ancient weariness. When he opened them, his expression was clear and direct.
"It produced nothing in me," he said. "No guilt. No remorse."
The general stared at him.
"Nothing?"
"Pleasure," Kimblee replied without hesitation. "Only that."
The general's pencil froze.
"Are you saying you enjoyed—?"
"I'm saying I did the little I did in the name of my country," Kimblee interrupted. "And I enjoyed it. Very much." A brief laugh escaped his lips. "What an irony, isn't it? To kill and die under a flag that later decides to forget you."
The general pressed his lips together.
"Many of those who were there can't sleep," he said. "They live haunted by what they did."
Kimblee tilted his head.
"Then they never should have gone," he replied. "War isn't for those who feel guilt. It's for those who understand that the noise cannot be ignored."
He rose slowly and walked to the bars.
"You talk about marks," he continued. "Ishval did leave a mark. On the world. In me, it only confirmed something I already knew."
"And what is that?" the general asked.
"That I am not like the others."
The general snapped the notebook shut.
"We already knew that," he said. "The question is whether that makes you useful… or dangerous."
Kimblee smiled broadly.
"I'm always both," he replied. "It depends on who's holding the match."
The general lingered a few seconds longer, studying him. Then he turned away.
"Thank you for your time, Kimblee," he said. "You've been… enlightening."
"Anytime you want another lesson," Kimblee replied, "bring me something worth blowing up."
The doors closed once again. Kimblee was left alone, staring at the ceiling of his cell.
"Ishval…" he murmured. "What a beautiful noise you made."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the echo of explosions returned to keep him company.
(End of Chapter)