Chapter #34 The Threshold of Truth
The bodies began to disappear with increasing frequency.
At first there were only a few, almost imperceptible amid the constant chaos of war. Then it became routine. Too many. Far too orderly to be mere casualties of the conflict. Isaac remembered it with a clarity that chilled his blood even now, years later. When the army realized he was no longer capable of continuing his task of eradicating the people of Ishval, they chose to reassign him. It was not an explicit order, nor a direct conversation. It simply happened.
His alchemy ceased to be a weapon and became a tool.
They used him to preserve corpses. To delay decomposition. To "conserve resources," as the officers put it, with clean, hollow words. At other times, they placed him at the front lines to bolster troop morale, as if the sight of the Ice Alchemist—steadfast and silent—could justify what they were doing. Isaac obeyed. Because that was what was expected of him. Because questioning meant snapping the fragile thread that still kept him sane.
But he kept seeing.
Night after night, he continued to witness the wounded being taken away. Not the dead—the wounded. Men who were still breathing, still pleading, still believing they would be saved. They were carried off on improvised stretchers, away from the camp, away from everyone's sight. And they never returned.
There were no reports. No burials. No farewells.
They simply vanished.
"I don't have proof," Isaac said, his voice heavy with a trembling determination, "but from that moment on, I knew something was wrong. The military is hiding something from us, Kimblee. They have a secret plan. And I want to know what it is."
Kimblee watched him from his seat with a calm that was almost offensive. His eyes showed neither surprise nor outrage—only a distant understanding, as if Isaac were describing an inevitable natural phenomenon.
"Knowing more is not always better," he replied gently.
He looked at him with something that came dangerously close to pity.
"Some truths don't set you free, Isaac. They consume you."
Isaac clenched his fists.
"Are you telling me to forget?" he snapped. "To ignore what I saw? To pretend those people never existed?"
"I'm telling you," Kimblee continued, "to forget everything you lived through. Not to investigate what you don't truly want to know. There are doors that, once opened, cannot be closed."
Isaac took a step back, as if those words had pushed him to the edge of an invisible abyss. His eyes darted restlessly, as though the shadows of the cell were stretching and closing in around him. Paranoia was no longer a possibility—it was a constant presence.
"Tell me something, Kimblee," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Are you with them?"
Silence fell heavily between them.
Kimblee met his gaze.
"I am not on anyone's side," he finally replied. "I am on whatever side I choose, whenever I choose."
The answer did nothing to calm Isaac. On the contrary, it was the spark that ignited something inside him completely.
"I don't believe you!" he shouted, stepping forward. "Don't lie to me!"
He raised his hands instinctively. The air around him froze abruptly. Moisture condensed, crystallizing into sharp fragments that spun around his fingers. Ice alchemy responded to his fury with dangerous obedience. In seconds, the shape of a dagger began to form—cold, translucent, lethal.
Armstrong sprang to his feet, alarmed.
"McDougal, stop!" he shouted. "Stop right now!"
But Isaac no longer heard him.
His breathing was uneven. His eyes were locked on Kimblee, searching for a confession, a denial—anything that might restore a fragment of control over his fractured reality.
Kimblee, by contrast, did not move.
He watched the dagger form with genuine, almost academic interest. There was no fear in his expression. Not even tension. Only acceptance.
"Go ahead," he said calmly. "I don't think you'll find the answers by killing me… but go ahead."
Isaac hesitated.
The ice dagger trembled in his hand. For an instant, he saw all the possibilities: the strike, the blood, the silence that would follow. He also saw the emptiness that would come afterward. Because deep down, he knew Kimblee was right. Killing him would not erase what he had seen. It would not bring back the vanished. It would not close the wounds.
"Why are you like this?" Isaac asked, almost pleading. "How can you accept all of this?"
Kimblee tilted his head slightly.
"Because I am not seeking redemption," he replied. "I seek coherence. And the world, Isaac, is coherent in its cruelty."
The dagger slowly began to melt, dripping down and evaporating as it touched the floor. Isaac let his arms fall, exhausted. Rage gave way to something worse: certainty.
"So it's true…" he murmured. "They used us. All of us."
Kimblee closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"They always do."
The guards burst into the room, alerted by the disturbance. Armstrong quickly stepped in front of Isaac, shielding him, as he looked on the verge of collapse. Before he was taken away, Isaac looked at Kimblee one last time.
"I'm not going to stop," he said. "Even if it destroys me."
Kimblee smiled sadly.
"That's what worries me most about you," he replied. "Not that you seek the truth… but that you're willing to die for it."
When the bars closed and the noise reclaimed the space, Kimblee was alone once more. He leaned his back against the wall of his cell, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
The truth was in motion.
And someone, somewhere, would soon have to pay the price.
(End of the chapter)