Chapter 29 The Name They Shouted at the Sky
In that trench, my comrades in war were dying one by one. I remember it with almost offensive clarity, as if time itself refused to erode that moment. They fell around me with their eyes still open, mouths filled with dust, fingers clenched around the triggers of rifles that would never fire again. Some shouted names I never knew. Others prayed in silence. Others simply went still, staring into the void with the expression of those who understand too late that there will be no return.
I smiled.
Not out of gratuitous cruelty—though many would say it is the same—but because they were giving everything in a war no one had ever asked them to fight. A war decided in clean offices, signed with elegant pens, carried out with anonymous bodies. It was ironic. Terribly ironic. They had not chosen to be there. I had.
I had asked to be part of this.
As bodies fell, I felt the pulse quicken at my temples—not from fear, but from anticipation. Every bullet that passed close to my head was confirmation: I was alive, and the battlefield recognized me as one of its own. I risked my life just like they did, yes—but unlike my comrades, I had wanted this. I had signed that fate with a smile, with the certainty that this was the only place where my alchemy had complete meaning.
The trench shook with every impact. Sand crumbled from the improvised walls and fell over us like dry rain. The air was thick with gunpowder, blood, and an ancient hatred that needed no words to be understood. The Ishvalans advanced with a determination I had never seen before. They were not fighting for orders. They were fighting for vengeance, for memory, for something Amestris would never fully understand.
I took a step forward.
Then another.
And then I jumped.
I leapt out of the trench as if the ground itself could no longer contain me. For a fraction of a second, the world slowed. I saw enemy faces lift toward me, eyes widening with a mix of terror and fury. I heard them shout in their language—harsh words, heavy with hatred. I did not understand everything, but one phrase repeated among several of them, spreading from mouth to mouth like an echo.
"Crimson Demon."
I could not help but smile wider.
I landed hard and brought my hands together without thinking. The explosion erupted beneath my feet, hurling me forward as the ground detonated behind me. It was not a single blast. It was a sequence—a perfect chain of destruction calculated by instinct alone. Explosion after explosion, the earth split open, the air tore apart, bodies were flung like broken dolls. The noise was deafening, a chaotic symphony that drowned out screams and gunfire alike.
It was beautiful.
I advanced like that, creating pure chaos, until the battlefield became a living crater. But even the most perfect music has interruptions.
I felt the impact before I heard the shot.
A bullet tore through my right hand. The pain was immediate—white, absolute. My fingers went numb at once, and half of my alchemy was rendered useless. The transmutation circle burned beneath my skin as if it had been torn away. I growled, more annoyed than afraid, and instinctively tried to shield myself.
I had no time to react.
Another shot. This time to the shoulder. The impact hurled me backward, and I slammed into the ground violently. The air left my lungs, and for a moment all I saw was the dark Ishvalan sky spinning above me. Sand, blood, gunpowder—everything mixed together.
I was surrounded.
The enemies approached cautiously now, weapons aimed at my face, knowing the "demon" had been wounded. I could hear their footsteps, their ragged breathing, the murmur of quick orders. I tried to move my right hand. Nothing. I tried to bring both hands together. Pain shot through me like a shock.
So this is how it ends, I thought. Not with a great explosion, but under the weight of someone else's bullets.
And then, out of nowhere, he appeared.
There was no warning. No preceding sound. He was simply there.
A shadow moved among them, and in a blink, three Ishvalan soldiers fell dead. Not from explosions. Not from gunfire. It was something more direct, more brutal. Their bodies collapsed before they could even react. Confusion spread like a virus.
The figure approached me calmly.
"Are you all right, Crimson Alchemist?" he asked.
I laughed—a short, hoarse laugh that hurt my chest.
"And who the hell are you?" I replied, looking up at him from the ground.
The figure laughed as well—a light, almost mocking laugh.
"An ally of yours," he said.
He crouched in front of me and extended his hand. In his palm was a stone. Small, reddish, gleaming even under the dim light of the battlefield. No explanation was needed. The moment I saw it, I knew.
The Philosopher's Stone.
"This will help you," he added, placing it in my uninjured hand.
The contact was immediate. I felt the flow of energy surge through my body like a controlled wildfire. The pain was still there, but now it was accompanied by something far more powerful: possibility. I clenched the stone and let the alchemy flow, without perfect circles or precise gestures.
I focused on my wounds.
The bullet in my shoulder came first. I felt the flesh close, the bone realign, the blood cease to flow. Then the hand. The shot had been clean but deep. I guided the energy carefully, understanding in that instant the importance of medical alchemy. It was not enough to destroy. One had to know how to rebuild.
Empowered by the stone, the process was nearly perfect. No scar remained. Not on the hand. Not on the shoulder. As if the damage had never occurred.
I rose slowly to my feet, testing my fingers, bringing my hands together with a renewed smile.
The "demon," as they called me, watched with keen interest.
"Do what you do, Crimson Alchemist," he finally said.
He did not need to repeat it.
The battlefield was still there. The enemies were still there. And now, I was whole again.
(End of the Chapter)