After the trip into the Hollow to retrieve the safe, Ignis had once again become the idlest person in all of the Cunning Hares.
Nicole and the others had accepted the Proxy's request to investigate the safe's origins, spending their days in Fourteenth Street gathering intel.
Ignis wanted to join, of course, but his proposal was vetoed immediately—he stood out far too much. Not to mention, remnants of the Red Fang Gang were still active there. If they recognized him, things could get ugly fast.
He wasn't afraid of a street fight—far from it—but the goal this time was information, not chaos. A brawl would only draw the Public Security Bureau's attention or scare off any potential informants.
So, the giant had no choice but to stay behind, left at home to stare blankly at Amillion, the resident Bangboo.
On the day they returned from the Hollow, the Bangboo had reported spotting suspicious people watching the house through surveillance.
That put Nicole on edge. She ordered Amillion to keep a constant eye on the cameras and report anything unusual immediately.
Which meant Ignis was now even more bored—everyone had a job but him. All he did was nap or zone out.
Ah… he missed forging iron—or even just having something with an internet connection would be nice.
After a few evenings of post-dinner study, he had managed to grasp the basics of the local written language. It resembled English, just with different letters.
The TV in the living room had no signal—the subscription hadn't been renewed—and the rented tapes had been watched to exhaustion.
So bored. Like a salted fish drying in the sun.
His power armor was off now, stowed neatly in the garage. The smart mechanical rig there was surprisingly handy—once programmed, it could suit him up or strip him down in minutes.
He slipped his power gauntlet onto his left hand; the paint on it was scratched. He'd have to buy some to patch it later.
At the moment, Ignis was dressed in clothes Nicole had bought him: a white tank top under a black studded leather jacket, a wide studded belt, black work pants, and a pair of oversized combat boots.
With his freshly shaved head and dark sunglasses, he looked every bit like a dangerous gang enforcer.
The kind of guy who'd make a city marshal's eyes light up—at least a third-class commendation waiting to happen.
Then again, the Cunning Hares' line of work was technically illegal Hollow diving.
Great. He'd gone and turned himself into a walking arrest warrant.
After pacing the courtyard until he was dizzy and staring at security feeds with the Bangboo until his head hurt, Ignis decided to go out for a walk.
At least he could buy some paint to touch up his armor. Those scratches were an eyesore.
Closing the gate behind him, he turned—and couldn't help muttering, "What a damn dump."
Unlike the glittering core of New Eridu, this area—on the outskirts of the Old Capital—was a place civilization and order had long abandoned.
The buildings were packed tight and uneven, some half-collapsed into ruin. Low structures crowded each other, fighting for every inch of space. Windows faced windows, balconies faced balconies—privacy was a luxury no one here could afford.
Above, tangled webs of electrical cables crisscrossed the sky, connecting every household. They carried life's essentials while dangling like hazards waiting to strike.
The narrow alleys were dark and winding, more maze than street. The walls were cracked, scarred with time, covered in layers of graffiti—markings of the countless gangs that ruled this place.
The Public Security Bureau barely paid attention here. As long as nothing major happened, they'd pretend it didn't exist.
So the gangs ruled instead. As long as they paid taxes and kept things quiet, the government looked the other way.
Ignis had to admit—the house the Cunning Hares had rented was oddly nice for this area. Whoever the original owner was, they clearly weren't ordinary.
But that didn't matter. Now it was the Cunning Hares' base. If anyone dared make a move against its residents—
—he'd break them.
Just ahead, near the bus stop bound for the city center, a fight broke out.
No—bullying was more accurate.
On one side were a bunch of punks—hair dyed all colors, wild hairstyles, bodies covered in tattoos of dragons and tigers. On the ground, curled up and shielding his head, was a scrawny boy.
He was small, frail, holding himself tight to protect vital spots.
Even surrounded, he didn't beg or cry. He just endured, silent and still, waiting for their rage to pass.
"Fuckin' hell." One of the thugs kicked him again. "What, you think you're some movie hero? Cry and beg already!"
The boy's only reply was a defiant stare.
"Boring," another thug scoffed. "Guess we need to make this more fun."
He grinned. "You're the little artist, right? Heard most grip strength comes from the pinky finger. Let's see how well you can paint after I break it."
The others cheered him on, stepping back to give him room.
He kicked the boy, then nodded to his buddies—who pinned the kid's arm to the ground.
"Three seconds," the thug sneered, raising his baton. "Beg, or say goodbye to your hand."
"Three!"
The baton rose high.
"Two!"
The crowd grew giddy—whether he begged or broke, they'd enjoy it.
"One!"
The thug's grin twisted into rage—the boy's silence infuriated him. He'd teach him a lesson—
—but the baton never fell.
Ignis caught the man's hand and squeezed. Just a touch of pressure—and the bones gave way.
The scream that followed froze everyone. The punks turned—and saw a giant.
Taller than any Thiren they'd ever met.
Dark skin. Shaved head gleaming. Muscles like sculpted stone.
"Wh-who the hell are you?!" one shouted. "We're with Ironclaw's crew!"
"Me?" Ignis thought for a moment—should he name the Emperor, or Nicole?
"I'm Ignis, the Salamander of the Cunning Hares!" he roared.
His three lungs gave his voice terrifying power; the nearby buildings shed dust from the walls.
The thugs clutched their heads—their own boss, Ironclaw, didn't have lungs that loud.
The shout didn't just scare them—the whole block heard it. Faces appeared at windows and alley mouths, tattooed bystanders whispering eagerly, wondering if the giant was about to devour the kids whole.
Ignis wasn't cruel, though. They were just punks, not enemies. A little fear would do.
He lowered his sunglasses, revealing glowing red eyes.
"Listen, you little bastards," he growled, voice low and heavy. "That kid's under my protection now. Touch him again, and I'll squeeze the shit out of you—literally."
The killing intent in his eyes wasn't the posturing of a street thug. It was the cold, bottomless kind—the kind forged in war, from mountains of corpses.
The Ironclaw kids trembled. A few even pissed themselves.
He released the thug's arm and gave him a light kick—sending him flying ten meters down the street.
The gang scrambled after their airborne friend, vanishing into an alley under the laughter of onlookers.
"You all right, kid?" Ignis reached down, helping the boy to his feet.
The boy's face was thin, cheekbones sharp, his brown eyes deep and stubborn. His tousled hair was the color of dark chestnut, matted from the beating.
"I'm fine…" he said weakly, voice trembling from pain. "Thank you, kind sir."
Ignis switched to thermal vision—no fractures, no organ trauma. Just bruises.
"What's your name, kid?" Ignis asked, brushing the boy's hair aside with a massive hand.
"Emile," the boy sniffled. "Emile Volt."
"You didn't cry when they hit you, but you're tearing up now," the Salamander sighed. "You're brave, kid. Tough."
The boy wiped his tears on his dirty sleeve and lifted his chin, refusing to let them fall.
"I'm a stranger here," Ignis said. "Could use a guide. I'll pay you. You in?"
Nicole had given him some cash—not much, but enough for errands.
"Of course, sir." Emile dusted off his clothes and winced. Even that small motion hurt. "It'd be my honor."
Moments later, a bus to the city center arrived. The two boarded, and the driver floored it.
New Eridu's public transport was built to accommodate larger species, so Ignis managed to squeeze into a seat—though it was a tight fit.
"Thank you again, sir, for saving me," Emile said softly, still wary, unable to fully relax.
Ignis didn't like that. He decided to get the boy talking.
"They called you a little artist," he said. "Mind telling me why?"