Deep beneath Amestris City, a vast hollowed-out chamber stretched into the darkness. Faint light flickered from soul-lamps embedded in the ceiling, throwing warped shadows over hundreds of figures clad in black robes. The air was thick — heavy with the scent of rust and ghostly decay.
The one known as Flying Corpse entered in silence. His steps made no sound on the stone floor. Beneath his hood, his eyes burned faintly red, as if something inhuman lived behind them.
He raised a withered hand.
"First squad stays," he rasped. "The rest — resume training."
At once, the crowd dispersed. The mass of black robes flowed like a tide, leaving only six figures standing before him — five from the First Squad, and a smaller shadow that seemed to flicker in and out of visibility.
"I have a task for you," Flying Corpse said, his tone flat, almost mechanical.
The squad leader stepped forward and bowed. "We await your command, Lord Fezi."
