Sitting on the old-fashioned train, Allen gazed at the unpolluted sky outside the window and felt his mind and body relax. Just then, the hushed conversation of two passengers behind him caught his attention.
"Hey, you hear? They say the government troops are about to go to war with the Ishvalans!"
"Huh? You drunk again, hearing things from who-knows-where? Don't say that out loud. If one of the government's dogs hears you, you're dead."
"Haha! Got it." The voice didn't stop, only dropped lower. "I heard the government's sending twenty State Alchemists to Ishval. They say the Flame Alchemist and the Crimson Alchemist are going too! They may be the government's lapdogs, but I really want to see them in action."
"With you? Dream on. You'll be dead before you even get close. Be a good boy, stay home with your wife and kids, and live out your life in peace! If one day you're really tired of living, grab a weapon and charge the presidential palace—you'll see them then, heh."
Allen smiled despite himself. The East was tense; Ishval's natives refused the government, even willing to wage war to resist. For men, the battlefield and a beauty's bedroom were the most yearned-for arenas. On the battlefield, to write a personal epic in blood—what could be more alluring?
Allen had made up his mind: reach Central at once, sit the State Alchemist exam, and strive to reach the front before the eastern war erupted. Whether for the thrill or for other reasons, to survive he needed power. Human rights didn't exist in this world. As long as you held that silver pocket watch, even killing a few insignificant civilians wouldn't bring censure; people would say you'd done the right thing.
With his goal set, Allen stopped listening to the two gossiping men behind him. He threw his coat over his shoulders and curled up in the corner to rest for a moment. Days of nonstop travel had drained his mental strength.
Time always slips away between your fingers without you noticing. The blazing sun outside had already dropped toward the western horizon. The graceful mountains were gone. All around stood iron giants.
Under the roof speakers' announcement, the train eased into Central Station. This was the nation's hub: from here, you could ride to any corner of the country. Even the uninhabited zones—if you wanted to go, a train would take you. Not far off, a special line hung suspended: an express from Central to Ishval. Government troops with rifles surrounded it. It seemed the rumors were true—war was inevitable.
Allen rubbed his sleepy eyes, slung his jacket across his shoulders. His skin held a healthy wheat tone; the bare muscles of his upper body gave him a feral air. Shaggy short hair, thick brows, a high bridge to his nose, eyes as deep and still as a well, and thin yet striking lips—together, they lent him a fierce, masculine charm.
Fortunately, this was Central. With people of every sort crowding the streets, it wasn't like in some simple country town where a gaggle of girls might circle him and leave him at a loss. Casually, with a touch of flair, he raked his fingers back through his short hair, the corner of his mouth quirking. With a map in hand, he set off to find the State Alchemist office. Well—"set off" might be generous. The problem was simple: he was terrible with maps. Before he died in his previous life, he'd once circled a neighborhood five times with a map, only to discover he was still standing where he started.
It wasn't that he refused to ask the "police." But with the situation unstable and Ishvalans said to have wheat-colored skin too, if Allen suddenly started asking after critical government bureaus right now, his fate might be to end up a number in some prison ledger.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there!"
Frowning at the maze of squiggling lines on the map—streets like tangled earthworms—Allen clenched his brows. For a map-idiot and direction-idiot, a map was basically an unsolvable maze on paper. And in this world there weren't even street signs to help. He glanced toward the exit, head still lowered over the map, and blundered into a passerby—a woman. A faint, clean scent lifted his spirits; being a man, apologizing was only proper.
But the woman didn't seem satisfied with an apology from so handsome a man. She somehow drew a pistol from nowhere and leveled it at his head. The classic line—"Don't move! Hands up!"—wasn't finished before Allen moved.
His left hand swept up from the right, clamping her wrist and twisting against the joint. She hissed, and the pistol dropped from her grip. Allen's left foot lifted; the gun bounced off the leather at his ankle and landed neatly in his right hand. The rest was simple: without a change in expression, he pressed the woman's own pistol against her forehead.
Only then did Allen really take her in: blonde hair coiled into a bun at the back, giving off a crisp, efficient air; brows slim as willow tips; a pair of big eyes with brown irises; features proportionate and refined.
Ignoring her anger, Allen said coolly, "Miss, don't go pointing guns at people. It's very impolite. Understand?"
She kept silent, glaring at him as if she could kill him with eyes that weren't even truly fierce. Allen let the glare wash off him. He nudged the gun a little harder—not to hurt her, just to scare some sense into this stubborn woman. Unexpectedly, she pushed back into the muzzle, just as stubborn.
A cruel little smile tugged at Allen's lips. His finger began to squeeze the trigger, metal whispering as it moved. At last a flicker of fear and regret appeared in her eyes, along with something deeper: fear of the unknown.
"Apologies, sir. Put down the weapon, or I will execute you on the spot for treason and attempted assassination of a senior government official!"