Chapter 24: The Silence Before the Blast
Kimblee continued speaking with his usual unsettling calm, as if every memory were just another piece of a puzzle that only he enjoyed assembling.
"After that," he said, "they assigned me an office."
He recalled that office with almost absurd clarity: gray walls, a wooden desk far too polished for someone like him, metal filing cabinets aligned with military precision, and a small plaque with his freshly engraved name. Solf J. Kimblee, Crimson Alchemist. The title still smelled new—of fresh ink and of decisions that could not be undone.
"They also gave me two subordinates," he continued. "Young. Disciplined. With that typical look of soldiers who still believe everything serves some noble purpose."
He did not mention their names. He never did. To Kimblee, names were disposable accessories.
As he settled into his new role, he watched others rise through the ranks of the military. Some by genuine merit, others by sheer political convenience. Among them, certain figures were impossible to ignore.
"Major Alex Louis Armstrong," he mentioned with a crooked smile. "An enormous man, with an even larger heart. Far too large to survive long in this system… or so I thought at the time."
And then there was her.
"Olivier Mira Armstrong."
Kimblee's tone shifted slightly—just enough to show interest.
"Always impeccable. Always sharp, like a freshly forged blade. I remember her mocking her brother without the slightest remorse, calling him weak, sentimental, unfit for the military. She said it out loud, not caring who heard."
Kimblee let out a soft laugh.
"She understood something many take years to accept: this army doesn't reward kindness. It rewards usefulness."
Even so, none of that truly interested him.
"I ignored all that theater," he said. "Promotions, rivalries, speeches… they were just noise. So one day, I looked at my subordinates and told them they could leave."
He remembered their surprised expressions.
"I told them I'd be in the library. That I needed to read, to study, to improve my alchemy."
They obeyed without question. That was what good soldiers did.
Kimblee interlaced his fingers, as if he could still feel the dust of the books on his hands.
"And I didn't lie," he added. "I went to the library. But not just to improve my alchemy."
The central military library was a solemn place, almost sacred. Endless shelves, ancient manuscripts, treatises on theoretical alchemy, classified reports, and notes from State Alchemists long dead. A cemetery of ideas.
"I read about advanced geometry, about energetic resonance, about chain reactions," he continued. "About how flow can fragment or concentrate depending on intent and the correct symbol."
He spent hours standing, sitting, leaning against shelves. Sometimes he didn't even read—he studied the diagrams, the incomplete circles, the mistakes of others.
"But I also went looking for trouble," he confessed. "Because knowledge that isn't tested is useless."
Seven hours.
Seven full hours without leaving the building.
Time ceased to exist for him. There was only paper, ink, symbols… and possibilities.
"Meanwhile," he said, "my subordinates began to worry."
He remembered it clearly: two figures moving cautiously between tables, searching for him among shadows and unlit lamps.
"They found me still reading," he explained. "They asked if I was finished."
Kimblee closed his eyes for a moment, recalling his own answer.
"I told them yes. That it was time to go test what I had discovered."
The expressions on those young men's faces were a mix of disbelief and fear.
"For them," he said, "it was unreal. They couldn't understand how someone could 'improve' their alchemy in so little time. They thought I was forcing something, playing with forces I didn't understand."
He opened his eyes and smiled.
"What they didn't know… is that I had perfected my alchemy long ago."
The silence weighed heavily in the room.
"I wasn't searching for more power," he continued. "I was searching for understanding. Context. More efficient ways to use what was already mine."
In his memory, Kimblee rose slowly and walked out of the library with his subordinates, his calm a sharp contrast to the storm he carried inside.
"The difference between a brute and an artist," he said, "isn't strength. It's control over the exact moment when it is released."
He stared ahead, as if he could still see that path.
"I didn't want to explode harder," he concluded. "I wanted to explode better."
He leaned back against the cell wall, letting the echo of his words fade.
"And that was the problem," he added at last. "Because once you truly understand how your power works… there's no going back."
The smile returned to his face.
A calm smile.
A dangerous smile.
(End of Chapter)