Chapter #65: The Monk in the Snow
The war burned far from Briggs, yet its echo reached even the frozen walls of the North.
While the armies of Amestris and Ishval clashed on blood-soaked lands, a single man advanced in silence toward the most impregnable fortress in the country. He carried no banners, no companions—only hatred, discipline, and a faith twisted by loss.
He was an Ishvalan soldier, trained since childhood by warrior monks. His body was slender, but every muscle had been forged to kill. Beneath the dark robe that covered him, his back was marked with ritual tattoos: ancient symbols etched in ink and pain, vows of vengeance and sacrifice. Every line spoke of a fallen brother, of a temple reduced to ashes, of a people pushed to the brink of extinction.
He hated Amestris.
He hated its soldiers, its generals, its citizens who slept peacefully while his people burned.
And that night, he had decided to take revenge with his own hands.
Taking advantage of the сменa of the night guard and the storm battering the outer walls, the monk scaled a secondary section of the fortress. His movements were precise, silent, almost unnatural. When the upper-level guard turned his head for a brief moment, the Ishvalan was already behind him. A sharp blow to the base of the skull was enough. The soldier collapsed without a sound.
The intruder dragged the body into the shadows and slipped deeper into Briggs.
The base was enormous. Cold. Hostile. A monster of steel and stone designed to withstand invasions… not lone infiltrators. The Ishvalan kept close to the walls, running only when necessary, hiding in unlit corridors, freezing in place whenever he heard footsteps or distant voices.
His breath fogged in the icy air.
He needed supplies. Food. Warmth. Time to learn the terrain before acting.
His stomach burned with hunger.
As he turned down a narrow corridor, a sharp pain forced him to stop. He looked down and clenched his teeth. Beneath his robe, a poorly stitched wound crossed his abdomen. The blood, already dark, had soaked through the inner fabric.
"Damn it…" he whispered, bracing himself against the wall.
The cold was merciless. Every exhale reminded him that Briggs showed no mercy to the weak. If he didn't act quickly, he would die right there—frozen like an animal.
Staggering forward, he found a secondary door. He opened it just enough to slip inside and closed it carefully behind him. The room was dark and smelled of chemicals. Feeling along the shelves, he recognized the place: a storage room for cleaning supplies.
"Better than nothing…" he muttered.
He sank to the floor, breathing heavily. The pain in his abdomen mixed with the numbness creeping into his fingers. He pressed a hand against the wound, stifling a sob.
"Damn it…" he groaned. "At this rate… I'll end up dead… or turned into an igloo…"
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, followed by a gasp. Exhaustion was catching up to him. Too much blood lost. Too much cold.
With trembling hands, he pulled a small bundle from beneath his robe. He unwrapped it carefully. Inside were several ancient manuscripts, protected as if they were sacred treasures. His dark, hate-filled eyes softened for just a moment.
"Brother…" he whispered.
He traced the handwritten symbols with his fingers, recognizing the script.
"I won't let your research fall into corrupt hands," he said quietly. "I don't know what you truly did… or how far you went… but I won't let you die for nothing."
He pressed the manuscripts to his chest.
War was not only bullets and explosions. It was also knowledge. Secrets. Truths that Amestris must never possess.
His breathing grew slower. His body felt unbearably heavy. The cold seeped even into the storage room. His eyelids closed despite his will.
"No…" he murmured. "Not now…"
But exhaustion was stronger.
Before sleep claimed him, one final sentence slipped from his lips, heavy with pure hatred:
"I will kill you…"
Silence reclaimed the storage room.
Outside, Briggs remained watchful, unaware that a wounded enemy—consumed by vengeance and armed with dangerous secrets—was breathing within its walls.
The Ice Queen did not know yet.
But fate had already crossed the threshold.
End of chapter