Dorian, the Dark Alchemist, was a somewhat self-admiring man who never stooped to comparing himself with those State Alchemists swaggering in the sun. Alchemists were envoys closest to the realm of God, not the weapons of men that people imagined. Lately, the situation in the East had grown grim, and the nation's massive war machine had begun to turn, pulling dozens of State Alchemists to the eastern front. To keep his research undisturbed, Dorian sold off his manor and all his property and hid deep in the mountains and forests to begin the forbidden work of becoming a god: human transmutation.
Not many truly knew Dorian. After all, alchemists devoted to human transmutation tended to be secretly executed, burned, or hanged; there was no way for Dorian to trumpet his name. There was, however, one man who knew him well: Hohenheim of Light.
Somehow, Hohenheim knew that Dorian was an expert in human transmutation. Though Hohenheim had never attempted it himself, in theory none could surpass him. In pursuit of Truth—and of what lay beyond Truth—the two had once studied human transmutation together.
Today, Dorian judged that his theoretical knowledge was sufficient. All that remained was a single transmutation—to create a complete, genuine human being with a soul.
In the shadowed subterranean hollow, the young Dorian's excited face had gone a little pale. Beads of sweat rolled from his brow and down his cheeks. He had waited too long. After more than ten years of preparation, the once-sensational prodigy alchemist Dorian could no longer contain his thrill.
On the level floor of that dim, cavernous space, a huge hexagram transmutation circle had been drawn: the most refined circle ever devised specifically for human transmutation—known only to him and Hohenheim.
Dorian quelled the urge to begin at once, drew a thin slip of paper from his breast, and performed a final checklist of the circle's materials.
"Water, 30 liters; carbon, 20 kilograms; ammonia, 4 liters; lime, 1.5 kilograms; phosphorus, 800 grams; salt, 250 grams; saltpeter, 100 grams; sulfur, 80 grams; fluorine, 7.5 grams; iron, 5 grams; silicon, 3 grams; trace elements…"
When the long list had been checked item by item, the slip in his hand was suddenly eaten away by a wisp of black mist. Dorian's features twisted, lending a touch of terror to what had been a handsome face.
"Come! Let the world witness this great moment born under my hands!!" Dorian roared—there was a force in it that did not match his thin frame. He slammed both palms onto the circle. The blood-red pattern began to glow with a faint crimson light. A strange sound followed: a tiny arc flashed at the circle's center, and more arcs sprang forth. In the sealed underground hollow, air began to move. The sudden change startled Dorian, but excitement outweighed surprise.
Because he had opened the Gate—the Gate of Truth.
He waited, still. The airflow surged. At the center of the circle a black void appeared, sucking every last material into itself. The pull was so strong it caught Dorian unprepared. He leaned his body with effort, fighting to keep from being dragged in—a futile struggle. The suction raked across the cavern's mounds of reagents; papers whirled; every sort of material danced in the air.
With a thunderous boom, the void vanished. Yet at the heart of the transmutation circle there was…nothing. After that sequence of changes, Dorian's mind frayed. Ten years of toil for a dream—no one could bear such a blow.
Staring blankly at the circle, he muttered, rechecked the materials, and a flush returned to his bloodless face.
"Ha! I see it. It's missing—the most important thing is missing. The soul. Add it, and there's still time!"
Dorian drew a sharp dagger from his belt and drove it into his own heart. As life ebbed, he held himself up by sheer, staggering vitality, pressed both hands to the circle's edge, and with a burst of red light, half-conscious, he saw it: at the center of the circle, a shadow—and a pair of enormous eyes.
Another surge of suction came. Dorian's body and his soul were drawn toward it. With pride—and a hint of lingering attachment—he cast one last glance over the cavern where he had spent so long. A faint smile of relief touched his lips, and he vanished into the void.
As Dorian disappeared, the first lesson of alchemy rang in his mind.
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Allen died—perhaps in a car accident, perhaps by someone's design. Either way, he was dead. He did not go to heaven or hell; his soul did not scatter. He was pressed among many souls just like him.
It was dark there, and souls would often vanish into nothing. Other souls told him, mind to mind, that those had gone where they were meant to go. If you couldn't find a body to reincarnate into before you faded, you were done.
Time passed—who knew if it was a year or a day—when a thread of light split the black. A flawless body floated quietly in the glow. The surrounding souls hurled themselves at it, but… the light erased them the moment it touched them.
It wasn't the first time. The previous time, a body had been sent in too—but hacked into countless pieces. A soul beside Allen had snatched a single severed finger, which was useless for rebirth. Watching soul after soul vanish in the radiance, Allen ground his teeth and bolted forward. Better to gamble than wait here for a reincarnation that would never come.
The instant he lunged, pain like augers gnawed his essence—the deepest agony of the soul itself. Even Allen, who fancied himself a tough man, wept uncontrollably. But to live, he had to press on, breath by breath, toward that body.
The souls behind him stared, stunned by Allen's near-mad speed. They cursed him, convinced he could never reach it—he was moving too fast.
At last, under their torrent of curses, Allen's soul vanished. The other souls laughed, waiting for the body to slip back into darkness so they could divide it up. But the door slammed shut. The light, and the body within it, were cut off from them.
Allen had succeeded in reincarnating…
He could feel limbs. He could feel a heartbeat. He could feel muscles aching and twitching. All of it sent him into rapture. He opened his eyes slowly—afraid that if he opened them in one go, he'd find it was only a dream.
Bit by bit, a lance of light stabbed his pupils. His irises tightened, and the scene came into focus: a very dim chamber, walls lit with candles. A strange diagram sprawled across the floor. A pallid young man with a dagger in his chest stared at Allen with a twisted expression that made Allen's heart pound. Was this…some cult's ritual?
He looked around. Once his eyes had adapted, Allen discovered he could ignore how bright or dim it was. Even the small pit in the distance that should have been pitch black showed clear details—the patch of moss clinging to its wall.
The next moment, the pale young man lying on the floor, without any force left in his body, "drifted" slowly toward Allen. Allen didn't dare move recklessly. Who knew what any of this was? When the young man suddenly vanished right before him, Allen smiled—he had seen it: a thing he knew best—the soul. He understood then that the young man had died.
After stumbling countless times, Allen finally stood, laughing through tears. He could feel the ground under real feet. He could feel himself growing familiar with this body. He cried. Freed from the fate of being only a soul and finally dissolving—what could be more exhilarating?
When the elation eased, Allen walked to the books scattered across the floor. He urgently needed to learn this world…
He picked up a slightly tattered, timeworn volume and opened the first page. A few lines were written there, clear as day:
There is no such thing as a gift without cost.
There is no such thing as a price paid for nothing.
A person who offers no sacrifice gains nothing.
To obtain anything,
something of equal value must be lost.
This is alchemy's Principle of Equivalent Exchange.
We believe it to be the world's truth.
In that moment, in this room steeped in taboos, the world's greatest alchemist—the Scribe of Slaughter—was born.
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