Chapter 32 The Silence Before the Blast
Months passed.
Long, heavy months that left no visible marks on the prison walls, but carved deep impressions into the spirits of those condemned to look at them every day. The general never returned. No further interrogations, no official visits, no attempts to pry from Kimblee what he had not yet decided to give. At first, the absence was a curiosity; then, an annoyance; finally, a burden.
Waiting was not his nature.
Solf J. Kimblee had always been a man of action—of immediate decisions and explosive consequences. Patience was not among his virtues… and yet confinement forced him to learn it. Not as surrender, but as practice. A new discipline. Instead of letting frustration eat away at him, he began to meditate, to observe, to analyze the small world around him from a different perspective.
The prison had its own ecosystem: invisible hierarchies, unbreakable routines, latent violence. The inmates attacked him often—at first out of hatred, then out of fear, and finally out of sheer stupidity. "Accidental" shoves, whispered threats in the corridors, clumsy attempts to provoke him. Kimblee endured it for weeks, almost with scientific curiosity, studying how far they were willing to go.
Until one day, he decided it was enough.
It was a brief confrontation, in one of the secondary corridors. Two men cornered him, believing that the reputation of the Crimson Alchemist had rusted with time. Kimblee did not raise his voice. He did not shout. He simply smiled, bit his thumb until it bled, and let a single red drop fall onto the stone floor.
"Do you know how efficient blood is as a conductor?" he asked calmly.
With his finger, he traced only a partial line on the floor. It was not even a complete circle—just the suggestion of one. That was enough. His eyes gleamed with a terrifying promise.
"If I finish this," he continued, "it won't be just this corridor that explodes. The entire prison will. And you'll be inside with me."
Fear was immediate. Raw. Genuine. The men backed away without a word, and the story spread like wildfire among the inmates. From that day on, no one bothered him again. Kimblee had demonstrated something more important than power: the will to use it.
With his peace restored, he requested books.
The guards, though wary, complied. Kimblee was not an ordinary prisoner. He was still a State Alchemist, albeit a fallen one, and he had also fought in the war. That granted him certain privileges: a solitary cell, fewer restrictions… and a different diet. While the others received bland rations, he ate better—not out of compassion, but calculation. The military always thought in the long term.
The books began to arrive one after another: ancient treatises, incomplete manuscripts, censored texts. Kimblee devoured them eagerly, turning pages with a pencil between his fingers, underlining passages, jotting notes in the margins. His research continued. The alchemy of explosions—or, as he preferred to call it, Crimson Alchemy—still held secrets yet to be revealed.
It never once occurred to him to use that pencil or paper to draw a transmutation circle and escape.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he didn't want to.
He felt comfortable in that prison. It was an honest place. No masks, no heroic speeches. A space where violence was direct and intentions were clear. Besides, he knew that sooner or later the military would need him again. They always did. When conventional solutions failed, they turned to monsters like him.
In the meantime, he had time. Time to think. Time to refine ideas.
Part of his "entertainment" included occasional visits from Major Alex Louis Armstrong. A giant of muscle and principles, as firm in his morals as he was unable to forget the past. Armstrong appeared from time to time with a forced smile and a box of unpainted figurines under his arm.
"To keep the mind occupied," he would say. "It's important, even in… circumstances like these."
The figurine-painting sessions became a strange but steady routine. Armstrong talked too much—about life, about honor, about Ishval. Kimblee listened only as much as necessary. The major could not forget what had happened in the war; the images haunted him. The faces. The screams. The guilt.
"Don't you ever think about what happened there?" Armstrong asked once, as he watched Kimblee apply a coat of deep red paint to a figure.
Kimblee did not look up.
"I think about it clearly," he replied. "That's more than many can say."
Kimblee's indifference was neither ignorance nor denial. It was acceptance. Ishval had been a consequence. Nothing more. Armstrong, by contrast, kept searching for redemption in every conversation, as if Kimblee were the mirror he needed to face in order to understand his own sins.
That day, like so many others, they were in the middle of one of those "classes." Kimblee painted with surgical precision, transforming a generic figurine into something vibrant, almost alive. Armstrong talked, gestured, trying to fill the silence with words that only seemed to make it heavier.
Then it happened.
The sound of footsteps approached down the corridor. They were not Armstrong's, nor those of the usual guards. They were firmer. More deliberate. Kimblee noticed at once. His hand paused for a second—barely perceptible.
The bars opened.
"Mr. Kimblee," said an unfamiliar voice. "You have a visitor."
Armstrong turned, surprised.
"A visitor? That wasn't scheduled—"
Kimblee slowly raised his gaze. His lips curved into a calm, almost satisfied smile. He had sensed the change in the air long before the door opened. Something was moving. Something had finally decided to break the stillness.
"It was about time," he murmured, setting the brush aside.
The unfinished figurine remained on the table, bathed in crimson red, as if anticipating the blood that had yet to be spilled.
(End of the chapter)