The day after returning from Sixth Street, Ignis finally had time to clean his power armor.
The scorched black plating was wiped down, revealing layers of minor damage beneath.
The chestplate and pauldrons were covered in scratches and dents, one pauldron slightly warped. Fortunately, the ceramite-steel was tough enough—nothing too serious. A little heat and hammering would set things right again.
Shame about the emblem on the shoulder, though. After being blasted by the APC's autocannon, it was almost completely gone—hardly recognizable now.
The chestplate wasn't much better off: the paint was stripped badly, probably needed to be redone. Luckily, the twin-headed eagle insignia was still intact. If that had been destroyed, Ignis would've marched straight to the precinct and roasted Perlman alive to vent his rage.
Now all he could do was wait for Nicole to bring back the forge tools—an anvil, a furnace, the works—then he could fix it himself.
As for Anby's weapon, he had considered making her a power sword, but without the components for a disruption-field generator, that idea was out.
Forging just an ordinary blade felt too dull.
Since arriving in New Eridu, two weapons had impressed him most—Nicole's briefcase cannon and Corin's chainsaw.
Speaking of chainsaws, he couldn't hide his fondness for the chainsword. Maybe he could make one for Anby.
He pictured her cold face as she revved a chainsword through a swarm of Ethereals, her power pack feeding current into the weapon.
The blaze of yellow sparks mingling with electric-blue arcs—that image alone was thrilling.
Recalling the specs of standard mortal chainswords, Ignis fetched paper and pen to sketch. Back on the barge, he'd been friendly with the stationed troops near his quarters, often making chainswords for them in his downtime.
He wondered how those loyal warriors were doing—Sergeant Volcanic, Brother Sindefist, the men of the 6th Company. Had they managed to restart the Gellar Field generator? Had they returned safely to realspace?
A man can't stay idle too long. Even a Space Marine isn't immune to wandering thoughts.
He shook off the melancholy and focused on the blueprint again.
As a certified tough guy, known for grit, drawing a schematic was nothing. Soon, a simple design was done.
Now all he needed was for Nicole to bring back the forge supplies—then work could begin.
Thinking this, Ignis stood and began mapping out the garage: where to place the furnace, the anvil, the bellows, the oxygen tanks, the machine table.
As he was imagining what the workshop would look like, someone knocked at the door.
The visitor was none other than Emile Volt—their little artist.
The boy's pale face was flushed, excitement shining in his eyes.
"Mr. Ignis, I've got some design drafts—would you take a look?" he said, rummaging through his bag.
Ignis raised a hand to stop him. "Easy. Come in first—we can talk inside."
The boy stepped in timidly, noticing the many pairs of shoes by the door.
"You live here alone?" he asked softly, lingering near the entrance.
"Yeah, just me," Ignis said kindly. "There's juice and Bomb-Cola in the fridge—which would you like?"
"Just water, please." Emile crept to the table, staring stiffly at the lavish interior.
"Relax, we're friends," Ignis said, handing him a drink. "No need to be nervous. Even if the others were home, no one would hurt you."
A few sips later, the boy eased up. He looked around curiously, searching for words to describe what he saw—this place was nothing like his own home.
"Pretty fancy, huh?" Ignis asked.
Emile nodded. "I've never seen anything like it. I don't even know how to describe it."
"I feel the same," Ignis admitted. "Not my house anyway—I just live here."
"Eh?" Emile blinked.
"We're just renting. No matter how fancy a place looks, you only need a bed to sleep. What you have—your own skill—is worth far more." Ignis patted his head. "Now, about those designs of yours?"
Emile brightened, pulling a stack of sketches from his bag—various emblem designs. He began explaining each one, voice clear and confident, eyes sparkling with life.
Ignis listened quietly, occasionally asking questions or suggesting which ones to refine. The boy wasn't discouraged—he'd just scratch his head and think of improvements.
Gone was the timid, withdrawn Emile; he was radiant, alive. Ignis almost wished he could record this moment, so the boy could see how brilliant he looked now.
In the end, they settled on a design featuring an eastern dragon. Ignis was pleasantly surprised—most people he met had western names, yet here was a dragon with antlers and a serpent's body.
Outlined in black flame, the golden-scaled dragon coiled in a perfect circle, clouds curling under its claws, fire pouring from its jaws.
"Where'd you see this design?" Ignis asked. "This loong dragon."
"There's a mural in the Lumina Square parking lot—two dragons, black and white," Emile said. "It's amazing. I love it."
"Then that's the one," Ignis decided, tapping the sketch. "Refine it, make it detailed. You'll be well paid."
"Yes, Mr. Ignis." Encouraged, Emile glanced at his cracked phone screen. "I should go—my parents will worry."
"Wait." Ignis grabbed some fruit from the fridge. "Take these to them. Tell them I said hello."
He watched the boy disappear into the narrow alleyway before returning to the garage.
He'd barely sat down for two minutes when another knock came. With a sigh, Ignis opened the door—and immediately regretted it. He should've pretended not to be home.
"Well, well. Seems this citizen doesn't appreciate visits from the peacekeepers," said a voice.
The speaker was short—shorter even than Nekomata. She had teal twin-tails and wore a cropped vest and hotpants, the uniform of the Security Bureau.
"Senior Qingyi…" The woman beside her was also an officer, though her uniform was immaculate, her coat's shoulders fitted with two odd tubular devices.
Zhu Yuan and Qingyi.
"Ah, Zhu Yuan," Qingyi said, eyes closed and tone serene. "The people of this district and the enforcers of law—rarely do they find harmony."
Ignis's brain nearly short-circuited at her archaic speech. What kind of language was that—classical literature? He felt like he'd been dropped into a high school translation exam.
Still, with officers at the door, he couldn't leave them outside.
"Officers, what brings you here? Would you like to come in and talk?" he said, resigned.
"Good," Qingyi nodded and stepped inside.
"Thank you for your time," Zhu Yuan said politely.
Once seated, Qingyi unhooked a canteen from her waist and took a sip of tea.
"Mr. Ignis Demara, do you remember Leonard Russo? The peacekeeper assigned to this district," Zhu Yuan began, pulling up a clipboard.
"I do. He came by recently, handled an attack we were involved in," Ignis said. "Our place was assaulted by the Ironclaw Bears gang. To defend ourselves, we fought back."
"And turned Ironclaw himself into a charred corpse?" Qingyi remarked, lowering her cup. "A gift offered with borrowed strength, a wave raised by borrowed wind—your influence spreads far indeed."
Ignis could hear the sarcasm. She was accusing him of exploiting the gang conflict to raise his own standing—but he chose to play dumb.
"Senior…" Zhu Yuan nudged Qingyi with her elbow, then turned back to Ignis. "Here's the matter. A few days ago, Leonard Russo was reassigned to assist in an operation on Fourteenth Street."
"He and his squad… were killed in action," she said quietly, brows furrowed. "Our system records show there'd been… tension between you two."
"So, he was the one who died in that report?" Ignis asked. He didn't like the man, but hatred wasn't the word. "It wasn't a feud—he just tried to extort me and failed."
"Do you have an alibi?" Qingyi asked, finally speaking plainly.
"This house is surrounded by cameras. You can check the footage from that day—I never left. The others here can testify too."
"Good. We'll confirm that," Zhu Yuan noted on her pad. "You had a violent run-in with Ironclaw, killed him, and his gang scattered. Did you know he worked under someone named Razor of the Mountain Lion Gang?"
"He used that name to threaten me," Ignis said honestly. "And Razor's the one responsible for Russo's death, isn't he?"
"Yes. We fear he may target you next," Zhu Yuan said, face paling as she fought nausea. "He's… a lunatic."
"What exactly did he do?" Ignis asked, sensing something bad.
"Leonard Russo and his eight team members," Qingyi said calmly, taking another sip of tea, "were decapitated—ripped apart, not cut. Judging from the wounds, their heads were torn off while they were still alive."
Zhu Yuan's face went white, throat convulsing. Even as a peacekeeper, that scene was too horrific to stomach.