"Mr. Ignis, please, don't do anything rash!" Zhu Yuan quickly stepped forward to intervene as the situation spiraled out of control.
"Mr. Ignis, let him go. The Public Security Bureau will handle this."
Qingyi snapped her baton open—the metal rod split into three sections with a click, forming a three-section staff. She gripped both ends tightly, ready in case the towering giant became violent.
"Officer! Officer! Help! He's trying to kill me!" the drunk man screamed, his shrill voice drilling into Ignis's skull.
Already agitated from the fear of Chaos' possible intrusion, Ignis felt his temper flaring hotter and hotter.
"Hey, isn't that Fritz from Workshop Three?" someone outside called. A few curious bystanders had gathered by the door. "And his kid, Emile!"
"Whoa—officers—uh, we're just watching, that's all!"
As the crowd grew, the standby security officers rushed in, forming a cordon to separate both sides.
Ignis saw the people gathering and decided this farce needed to end. He released the drunk. Fritz sagged against the wall, sliding down as if all his strength had drained away.
The Salamander knelt down, helping Emile to his feet. The boy looked exactly as he had at the bus stop—bruised, battered, silent. Ignis carefully picked up the scattered sketches, smoothed each sheet, and tucked them back into the backpack.
"You little brat!" Fritz snarled, but when Ignis turned those burning eyes on him, he shrank back at once. "J-just wait till we get home, I'll deal with you then."
The boy lowered his head, trembling, holding back tears. The pain didn't hurt as much as the humiliation—being beaten by his father in front of others crushed his pride.
Ignis spread his massive arms and gently pulled the boy into a hug. He knew—no words, no promises, could mean more than that.
He felt something warm seep through his shoulder. The boy had finally broken down.
If no one has ever treated you gently, you learn to fake strength for life.
"Come on! You're coming home with me!" Seeing his son crying in another man's arms, Fritz's sense of pride twisted into rage.
It felt like his dignity as a father had been challenged—like he was being made a fool of in front of everyone.
He reached out to grab Emile.
Ignis turned, seized him by the collar, and lifted him effortlessly off the ground.
"Enough!" The roar from three lungs thundered through the air, making everyone's ears ring.
"What kind of father are you? The kind that only knows how to domestically abuse his own son?" Ignis's voice shook with fury.
"I'll say this again—I'm not in a gang. I work for the Gentle House Agency. I know your son because he was being beaten by a bunch of punks—they nearly broke his arm!"
"I stepped in to help him. I even drew the Ironclaw Bears' wrath for it! And you—did you even know that?"
"I—I didn't… He never told me…" Fritz stammered weakly.
"Of course he didn't tell you. Because it wouldn't matter if he did! Can't you see his injuries? Are you blind?" Ignis slammed him lightly against the wall. "I bet you're the type who'd say 'why don't they bully someone else,' or 'it must be your fault,' or 'just endure it.' Aren't you?"
"Your son's got talent—real talent. He could leave this place, have a future."
"The design I asked him for isn't a tattoo. It's a sacred insignia—something deeply important to me. I wanted to pay him for his work, to give him a chance at something more."
"And you? You've never cared about his gift. All you do is hit him and tear him down. If you can't help him, the least you can do is not stand in his way!"
"Listen to me—if I find out you've laid a finger on that boy again, I swear to the Golden Throne, I'll tear your damned skin off myself!"
Ignis spat on the floor, eyes blazing.
"Officer! Officer, he threatened me!" Fritz shrieked, clutching Qingyi's sleeve. "Arrest him!"
"Right," Qingyi said coolly, pulling out a pair of cuffs. "Mr. Fritz, would you prefer to cuff yourself, or shall I do it for you?"
"Yeah, which one is it?!" Fritz barked at Ignis, still too drunk to realize she meant him.
Qingyi didn't bother explaining—she simply cuffed one of his hands.
"Wait, Officer! Why are you cuffing me? Cuff him!" Fritz sputtered, reaching to undo the cuffs.
"Fritz, you are under arrest for domestic violence." Electricity crackled along Qingyi's weapon. "Do not resist."
"I—It was discipline! You can't raise kids without hitting them! Everyone does it!" he protested desperately.
"I'll repeat once more—do not resist arrest." Qingyi's voice sharpened, her baton pointing at his nose. "It's low voltage, but it still hurts."
"All your actions have been recorded by our bodycams," Zhu Yuan added, stepping up beside her, pistol drawn. "You've been caught assaulting your child. That's a fact. Now cooperate."
The drunk deflated instantly, slumping like a punctured balloon. He let the cuffs snap closed around both wrists.
"Officer, I didn't hit him that hard…" he muttered weakly. "Just let me go…"
"How hard you hit isn't for you to decide," Qingyi said coldly, dragging him outside toward the waiting patrol car. "We'll take the boy for a medical exam. You'd better pray the injuries aren't serious."
As the small officer led the handcuffed man through the crowd, the onlookers booed and jeered, mocking him for being arrested over beating a kid—and for not daring to stand up to the giant who'd stopped him.
"Mr. Ignis, I'll need to take the boy to the hospital for evaluation," Zhu Yuan said, wrapping an arm around the bruised Emile. "We'll leave a few officers nearby to protect you. Please understand our position."
"..."
Ignis only nodded. He grabbed a pen and paper from the counter, scribbling a number, then knelt and handed it to Emile.
"This is my phone number. Call me if you need anything."
The boy accepted it silently, gripping it tightly. Ignis patted his shoulder.
"Don't lose heart. I really liked your design draft—can't wait to see the finished piece. I know you'll make it perfect."
As she turned to leave, Zhu Yuan asked quietly, "You seemed… familiar with how that father behaved?"
"Just some personal experience," Ignis replied, closing the door behind him.
Memories surged—ones he didn't want. He'd never liked construction work, but it kept him far from home, out in the desert, where no one called, no one shouted. That was enough.
He shook his head, driving away the thoughts. There was no time for sentiment. The top priority was learning who—or what—Razor of the Mountain Lion Gang really was.
If… if it was Khorne's doing… he had to be ready for war.
And he had to keep the others at the Cunning Hare safe. They couldn't withstand the corruption of the Warp.
At least, with a phone, he could search for information through the city's underground network.
The Inter-Knot—the largest black-market forum in New Eridu—became his tool. Ignis combed through every rumor about the Mountain Lion Gang and their leader, Razor.
Many scavengers mentioned being robbed by the gang in the Hollows—stripped of valuables, but left alive.
Others claimed the "Mountain Lion Gang" called themselves street fitness fanatics, who once beat a professional trainer so badly they threw him in a dumpster.
More alarming were the reports that the gang always escaped the Bureau's raids—especially in the Hollows. Some witnesses saw them vanish into rifts the officers dared not pursue.
And then—blood.
One post described how the gang had begun killing scavengers outright, even after taking their loot. The goal wasn't theft anymore—it was slaughter.
The gang's Hollow suits were painted blood-red, adorned with crude skull motifs.
Red. Skulls. Eight.
Ignis froze. The timing of Leonard's attack matched exactly the moment he himself had been dangling from that helicopter.
Those bloodthirsty, savage, maddened eyes he'd glimpsed that day… they could only belong to Razor.
The man's physique far exceeded human norms—nearly matching that of a Primaris.
Ignis's hands tightened. He had no idea what Razor truly was—had Chaos twisted his flesh? Was he already blessed by a dark god?
He remembered the battle against the "Stink Cans"—the Plague Marines, with their tentacled limbs and ruptured guts spilling from their armor, trudging forward under the weight of rot.
Their bolters spat contagion; their grenades melted flesh to slurry; even a graze from their melee weapons carried death.
Only with flamers and power fists had his squad survived, burning and smashing through those corrupted shells.
Ignis turned to the power armor stacked beside him. Nicole had to get the forge running soon.
The armor must be restored. He couldn't let this Chaos-touched threat grow any further—couldn't let the taint spread.
He had to hunt them down. Purge them. Exterminatus-style.
By the Golden Throne… if You can still see me—grant me Your strength.