Time had no meaning in this place. It flowed like a river without end, indifferent to those who fell into its current. The soul lingered, drifting in an abyss where no ray of light penetrated, no sound was heard but the endless whispering of the lost. It had been a long time since she had last communed with Truth, though how much had passed was immeasurable. Days? Years? Centuries? It no longer mattered.
But the Truth had made a promise.
This soul - unlike the others who screamed and wept in an endless cacophony - waited patiently, clinging to that faint hope. One day an opportunity would present itself, and when it did, the soul would be freed from this prison. It would leave this place of suffering, break the rules of the Gate, and return to something resembling life. But as time stretched into infinity, it was tormented by doubt. Would the Gate ever open again? Or was it doomed to stay here forever? He was beginning to forget what freedom was. But deep inside, he still remembered the promise. One day the Gate would open, and that day would be different.
Suddenly, without warning, emptiness filled him.
The pull of the Gate-the constant, long-standing sense of the soul's existence-began to change. It was no longer the soft, distant pull she had felt for so long. It had become stronger. Much stronger. The silence of the abyss, once stifling and unchanging, began to break. For the first time in years, something began to happen.
"It's time."
The thought swept through the soul like a shockwave. The pull from the other side intensified, as if a door were being unlocked, gears creaking, mechanisms groaning under the weight of some ancient force. And then the Gate of Truth opened with a deafening rumble.
The force was overwhelming, a surge of energy so powerful that it was impossible to resist. The soul felt itself being pulled inward, pulled out of the nothingness it had grown to hate. The light - the pure, blinding light that came from the Gate - was overwhelming. There was no room for thought, no room for anything but the sensation of being hurled through space and time. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the rush was over. The soul stood - no, existed - somewhere else.
A dead city lay before it.
This city had once been majestic - magnificent towers and intricate streets carved from desert stone stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a place that knew fame, wealth, and wisdom without measure. But now it was a silent graveyard, the streets were empty save for the dead bodies of the citizens of this city. The air was saturated with the memories of those who once lived here, their lives cut short in an instant.
Soul recognized this place through the depths of knowledge she had somehow acquired beyond the Gate. This was the city of Xerxes.
The ground beneath his feet bore the marks of an alchemical circle, a massive, intricate pattern that stretched across the city. This pattern promised life, but instead brought death. It was here that countless souls had been sacrificed to create the Philosopher's Stone. And it is here in the center of this alchemical catastrophe, should be the new head of the soul.
In the distance stood two figures. The first was a tall man with long golden hair and tired eyes that had seen too much. He was dressed in the garb of a slave, though something in his appearance spoke of wisdom and strength that lurked far beyond his appearance. His name was Van Hohenheim, though his soul did not yet know it. The second figure, an identical copy of Van Hohenheim, only with the distinction that the color of his hair was somewhat duller, more a touch of gray rather than golden. Once a test-tube creature. It was a homunculus, the very creature created from Hohenheim's blood. In its eyes glowed the knowledge accumulated over a thousand lifetimes, and in its smile shone pure, calculating intent.
This was the moment. The moment that set the entire world on course-the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, the great alchemical tragedy that doomed Xerxes and changed the course of history forever.
From deep within came the distant echo of the voice of Truth.
"You do not belong to this world."
But to be saved, the soul must come face to face with its history, its pain, and its cycles of sacrifice.
Van Hohenheim finds himself at the center of a catastrophe, unknowingly becoming part of the greatest alchemical experiment in history. The homunculus, cunning and devious, began to speak, guiding King Xerxes towards his doom. The gates of Truth opened, and the world beyond them was far more dangerous and complex than the soul had ever imagined.
POV: The Soul
I don't remember if I ever had a name. Perhaps once, long ago, before I fell into the abyss beyond the Gates of Truth, I had one. But it doesn't matter now. I am no longer who I was. Most of my memories are lost too - shattered into shards and dust. What's left are vague echoes, faint shadows of a life that seems distant and unattainable.
But something has changed. I can feel it. Memories awaken, resounding in me like whispers carried by a forgotten wind. Xerxes, this dead, abandoned city. The corpses that line the ground around me, scattered grotesquely where they fell, all speak of something familiar. There is a connection between me and this place, though I can't remember why. I know this world, but the reasons remain beyond my comprehension. The memories are too distant to grasp, but close enough to haunt me.
I stand on the outskirts of the city. The streets are ominously quiet. There isn't a living soul around - or at least it seems that way. There is nothing but silence, an oppressive emptiness that presses down on everything around me. The air seems heavy with the odor of death and suffering.
And me, I'm naked in the middle of it all.
For the first time, I'm looking down at myself. The body is a new body. It's unfamiliar, but it moves like it's always belonged to me. My limbs are long, thin, but strong, like iron cables stretched across a lean figure. The muscles protruding beneath the pale skin radiate an elusive strength. This is the body of a man in the prime of his life, perhaps in his twenties or thirties, but it feels older, much older. My fingers stretch out and I watch my arms - my flesh - move in response. It's strange to see something so solid after what seems like an eternity has passed in nothingness. My skin has turned almost ashy, so pale it almost blends in with the cold, dead stones beneath my feet. I look like I've crawled out of the grave, like a reanimated ghost in the flesh. My short, dark hair sticks to my head, and my eyes, when I catch a glimpse of them through the broken glass of a neighboring building, seem like lakes of pure blackness - empty, bottomless voids.
I'm reminded of...death.
A living embodiment of it, taking on human form. The contrast with the silent, crumbling city around me only intensifies the eerie silence that follows me around. As I stand there, trying to figure out where I am - or who I am - another sensation fills me. A gnawing emptiness in my chest. It's not hunger. It's not fear. It's something darker. It's an emptiness that follows me like a shadow, a presence I can't get rid of. It feels like I'm incomplete, like some part of me is still locked behind this damn gate.
How did I end up here? Why was I pulled out of that place, out of the abyss beyond the Truth? The last thing I remember is the Gate opening, that overwhelming light, and then...
It was like I was reborn in a world of death. The corpses around me, scattered in the dust like broken dolls, tell a story of suffering. I walk through the streets, stepping over lifeless bodies, some of them curled up in pain, others still with their eyes open, frozen in the moment of their last breath. I can feel the remnants of their souls, faint echoes that have not yet fully subsided. Their pain, their agony-they hang in the air, enveloping this city like a suffocating fog.
As I keep walking, something strange happens. The resonance intensifies. Memories - glimpses of knowledge - begin to surface, though I can't identify their source. I know of Xerxes, I know of his alchemical tragedy, of the Philosopher's Stone, of the betrayal that destroyed an entire city in a single moment of greed and arrogance. I know that this place has been consumed by sacrifice, by alchemy gone beyond its limits.
But how do I know all this? How can I know when I don't even remember who I am?
I feel drawn to the center of the city, my body moving as if it knows something my mind cannot comprehend. It's as if it's being guided by an invisible force whose pull I can't resist. The resonance intensifies, and the air vibrates slightly, as if the earth itself is filled with memories of the dead.
Why am I here? The question plays over and over in my head, but no answers come.
Perhaps I am meant to remember. Perhaps something in this city holds the key to my lost identity, to the truth of why I've been locked behind the Gate for so long. Or perhaps I am simply part of this cycle, a cog in a wheel of sacrifice that keeps turning, feeding off the lives of others, demanding more and more from those who dare to defy the natural order of things.
As I stand among the ruins of Xerxes, I can't help but feel the weight of something huge. Something cosmic, as if the very essence of the universe itself is watching me, waiting for me to act. I don't know what my part in this story is, but I feel like it has already begun. My body, though newly formed, moves with a strange confidence. I take my first steps through the city, naked and open to the cold wind that blows through the ruins. But I don't feel the cold. In fact, I feel nothing but the echo of those lost souls and the emptiness inside me that longs to be filled.
I walked through the streets, looking at the scattered remains of Xerxes. The city was still beautiful despite the silent desolation that had overtaken it. The architecture - grand, ancient, and now covered in the stains of time - told the story of a once thriving civilization. Towers, graceful arches, and intricately carved stonework reached for the sky.
But the beauty was spoiled by death. The corpses that lay in the streets - men, women, children, curled up in their last moments of life - spoiled what must have once been a city of wonders. I can't say I felt anything about it. No pity, no sadness. Not even disgust.
Just... nothing.
Heading towards the center of town, I began to feel a slight malaise. I was naked, and I was being blown around by the cold wind blowing through the streets. While it didn't particularly bother me - my body was strangely indifferent to such things - there was something about walking through this dead city with nothing but my own skin that seemed to stir the senses.
I glanced at the nearest corpse, my gaze sliding over the tattered remains of what had once been clothing. The thought flashed through my mind to rob it. My hands moved almost automatically as I knelt down and began to remove what was left of the clothes. A shirt, tattered but serviceable. Pants that hadn't suffered too much in death. Boots, a little tight, but still functional. I dressed quickly, finding what I needed from the dead. It had become my second nature to take what I needed from lifeless bodies. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that this was wrong, that I was looting, that these clothes had once belonged to people who had lives and families.
But, again, I didn't care.
They didn't seem to need these things anymore, and I had no reason to feel guilty. The dead had outlived their suffering, and the echoes of their souls were too weak to complain. I buttoned my shirt, feeling the fabric cling to my pale skin. At least it was comfortable. That was the main thing. I needed to be able to move freely and be prepared for whatever awaited me in the center of the city.
Anyone's opinion mattered little, for that matter. I was here for a reason, though I still didn't understand what that reason was. But in time, I would figure it out. For now, I was focused on what mattered. I continued my walk through the city, already dressed, feeling more like a person than a shadow. As I approached the center, the streets grew narrower and the architecture more ornate: the buildings more grand, the symbols of alchemy more prominent.
Streets once filled with people were now mere echoes. And I, dressed in the stolen clothes of the dead, was the only one moving in a city frozen in time.
And so I finally arrived at my destination. Before me, towering over the ruins of the city like a tombstone marking a great catastrophe, stood the palace. It had once been the heart of Xerxes, the residence of the king who ruled this city, his power absolute. The grandeur of the place, now abandoned and cold, was a monument to the death that had consumed this entire city. And yet, despite all this grandiosity, a silence persisted - an unnerving, suffocating silence. The kind of silence that makes you wonder if anything ever lived here.
But that silence was broken.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement-a silhouette, faint at first, but then more distinct as it darted between the streets. My gaze stopped on him. A man, breathing heavily, was running through the streets in a panic. I heard his voice; he was calling for someone. Was he calling for family? Loved ones? Or perhaps friends - those who he hoped had somehow survived this hellish catastrophe?
Something moved in me, something familiar. His appearance, his facial features, his presence-all of it echoed deep in my mind, like a string strummed on some forgotten instrument. I slowed my steps as I watched him, confusion seeping into my thoughts. Why did I recognize him? How could I know who he was?
And then it hit me. An epiphany struck me like a stroke of lightning.
Van Hohenheim.
The man running through the streets in desperate search was Van Hohenheim - Slave No. 23. A man who, without wanting to, had played a part in the destruction of this city. He was a slave, nameless and insignificant, until he gave his blood to a creature born of alchemy - a homunculus, a creature born from the very essence of deceit and greed. The homunculus took King Xerxes by the hand and whispered promises of immortality. And in a moment of ultimate betrayal, they turned the entire city into a giant circle of transmutation, sacrificing every soul in it to create the Philosopher's Stone.
Hohenheim, by cruel fate, survived. He became a living Philosopher's Stone, his body an immortal receptacle of countless souls that were consumed by the greed of the homunculus. In the process, he lost his friends, his loved ones, his very essence. And yet here he was - still alive, still searching. But how did I know all this? The knowledge was too precise, too intimate to be just a fragment of a memory. It was as if I had experienced it, as if I had witnessed these events firsthand.
I knew Van Hohenheim, even though it was the first time I'd ever seen him. Or... was it?
I couldn't understand. My mind was in turmoil, trying to make sense of a flood of memories that didn't seem to belong to me. I wasn't supposed to know this man, this slave who had become immortal, and yet here I was, standing in the very city that had made him what he was, watching him in a moment of despair.
Was this another fragment of my forgotten past? Or was it something else? Something connected to the Gate of Truth? And more than anything, I needed to understand who - or what - I really was.