Chapter 8 Negotiation in the Dust
The chaos on the battlefield remained suspended, as if the world itself had stopped time.
With unsettling calm, Kimblee lifted the Silver Alchemist into his arms. The old man looked at him with half-lidded eyes, breathing with difficulty. His voice was barely a whisper, a fragile thread between life and death.
"Kimble…" he murmured, almost inaudible.
Kimblee held him firmly, yet carefully, surveying the situation with a cold, calculating gaze.
"This man…" he said quietly, directing his words at Basque Grand, "…is my ticket to freedom."
Basque, breathing heavily after the recent battle, clenched his fists.
"Let him go, Kimblee!" he barked with authority, tension etched across his face.
But Kimblee did not move. He kept his eyes on Basque, his smile widening just a fraction.
"If you want this to end without more bloodshed," he continued, "then let's do this properly."
Basque Grand glanced around. One by one, the soldiers were beginning to regain consciousness, slowly pulling themselves up—disoriented, yet instinctively aiming their weapons at Kimblee. The tension mounted; any move from the prisoner could spark an immediate tragedy.
Seeing himself surrounded, Kimblee made a calculated choice. With a smooth motion, he released the old man and carefully laid him back on the ground. He took a deep breath and, wearing a smile of utter arrogance, stepped closer to Basque.
"Please… put the handcuffs back on me," he said, extending his hands in front of him like a mischievous child asking permission.
Basque frowned, but without hesitation he transmuted a pair of thick, impenetrable cuffs—designed to prevent Kimblee from bringing his hands together—and fastened them firmly around his wrists.
Kimblee offered no resistance. He simply stood still, studying the Iron Alchemist.
"Let's go," he said calmly, his voice light, almost playful.
Basque, his gaze still tense, gestured downward.
"You're missing your feet."
Kimblee laughed arrogantly, resting a hand on his freshly healed side.
"I'm the one who defeated the beast you couldn't face," he said. "I earned this."
Basque hesitated. Disbelief was clear on his face, but in the end, he chose not to restrain Kimblee's legs.
Kimblee took a step forward, moving naturally among the still-tense soldiers, and stopped beside the convoy vehicles.
"Help flip these cars over," he ordered. "And get a doctor for the old man."
Reluctantly, the soldiers obeyed, lifting twisted metal and helping place the Silver Alchemist somewhere safe.
Over the next few minutes, everyone's wounds were treated swiftly. The Silver Alchemist was breathing more steadily now, conscious thanks to Kimblee's intervention—and the stone that had saved his life.
When the work was finished, the convoy resumed its march in absolute silence.
Kimblee walked among them, his hands cuffed, yet the arrogance in his eyes undiminished.
Basque Grand watched him closely, ever vigilant, while the others accepted the heavy, unspoken tension. No one dared break the silence.
And so they moved on.
Toward Amestris.
The sun slowly sank, staining the road a coppery hue, as if the war itself were following them with every step.
(End of Chapter)