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The Golden Week holiday passed just like that—no major incidents, no real danger—and everyone returned to their everyday lives.
Cerakos unexpectedly hit it off well with Gotthardt, or perhaps it was simply that a Son of Sanguinius tended to be well-liked wherever he went. The relief carvings he etched onto the sand fortress not only satisfied the Son of Dorn, but even left Von Lycaon genuinely surprised.
As for Cecilia, she added Belle on Knock-Knock messaging, and without even realizing it herself, received acknowledgment from her idol.
Everything seemed to be getting better—at least, for now.
The Salamander let out a quiet sigh as he walked out of the subway exit. From afar, he spotted Vesmir, who was talking with a foreman wearing a safety helmet. Judging from the setup around them, it looked like the night market area was about to undergo renovations.
"Ignis, sir!"
The young man waved energetically the moment he saw him, completely shedding the reserve he once had as the head of a catering management company, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Business looks good. Planning something new?"
The Salamander walked over, casually chatting with his junior.
"Well… yeah, it's been pretty good, but that's all thanks to you."
Vesmir scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
"Some of the customers we had before felt the surroundings were a bit too 'untouched.' So, I hired people to renovate the nearby streets—add some benches, flowerbeds, that sort of thing."
"Shouldn't that be the Public Security Service Department's job? Why are you the one handling street beautification?"
"We could wait for them, sure. But you know how it is—places like ours don't get much of their budget."
The new boss spread his hands.
"So, I filed an application and took the project myself. They don't need to pay anything—just give us some convenience during construction."
"You didn't ask for any benefits?"
"Of course I did."
Vesmir grinned.
"If I asked for nothing, would they really feel safe handing it to me? I'll get priority rights to promotions near the subway station. Basically, anyone who wants to put up ads or host events there has to go through me first."
"You're starting to look like the godfather of this food street."
Ignis said dryly.
"Hey, I haven't done anything illegal, boss."
Vesmir hurriedly waved that title away.
"I just don't want random people plastering weird ads around here. You wouldn't believe it—since foot traffic went up, there've been a ton of illegal ads for drugs and stuff in the station. I had people clean them up, and even waited overnight to catch a few of the ones posting them."
"The Public Security bureau didn't deal with it?"
Ignis frowned.
"They said they didn't have the time or manpower."
Vesmir sighed.
"They claim some gangs are active in the area and they're busy monitoring them. But we haven't noticed anything suspicious."
Ignis looked at the confused young man and gave him the answer directly.
"They're talking about you. And your people."
"Us?"
Vesmir froze.
"I'm just trying to give the vendors here a better business environment. How does that make us a gang? We haven't broken any laws."
"Think about what you're doing."
The Salamander guided him patiently.
"You're mediating disputes, increasing employment, lowering crime rates, even handling street beautification. Those are Public Security's responsibilities."
"When you replace their function, you're putting pressure on them. If word gets to their superiors, what do you think happens?"
"Then… what should I do?"
Vesmir began to understand. The bureau needed to protect its image.
"It's simple."
Ignis looked at him steadily.
"Convince the Public Security General Affairs Department to hold an open bid for a street beautification project. They take the lead, follow legal procedures. You provide the money and labor. In the end, you enjoy the results, and they get credit."
"As for how you convince them—godfather—give them an offer they can't refuse. This district isn't wealthy. Equipment is outdated, treatment is average. Plenty of officers want transfers to better areas."
"I think I get it."
Vesmir exhaled.
"Ignis, sir… any progress on Fisher's case?"
The Salamander could only shake his head. That damned behavioral correction school was proving absurdly difficult to investigate.
"That's impossible!"
Vesmir shouted.
"We saw them take him away! We even fought them! How can there be no such person? This isn't right!"
Seeing his face flush red with anger, Ignis placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"I know. I believe you."
His tone was firm and restrained.
"What I mean is that in all available paperwork, there is no record tied to the name Fisher Dragovich."
"So, they forged the records?"
Vesmir took several deep breaths, grasping the core issue.
"Yes. Right now, our biggest problem is that we have no evidence proving Fisher Dragovich was taken by the Saint Love Behavioral Correction School."
"Damn it!"
The young man stomped the ground hard.
"It happened so suddenly—we didn't think to record video or take photos. There aren't cameras on these streets, and his parents don't have proof either…"
"This can't happen again."
Vesmir bit his finger.
"We need to install cameras."
"Don't forget Public Security."
Ignis reminded him.
"I know. I'll make them put out a tender for public safety facilities. I'll cover the cost. I'll make sure they save face and get real benefits."
His brows knit tightly.
"During the holiday, those people even came to post flyers. We tore them down. They wanted to fight us, but Public Security officers were there, so nothing happened."
"We should've grabbed a few of them and given them a proper welcome."
Vesmir ground his teeth. A friend vanishing without a trace was hard to accept.
"Don't act impulsively."
Ignis tightened his grip slightly.
"Stay within the law as much as possible. Some paths are last resorts, only after everything else has failed."
"I understand."
Vesmir sighed.
"I'll go talk to Public Security right now."
Watching the young man walk away, Ignis wondered if he should have warned him further. Some things couldn't be rushed—like dealing with official institutions, which were best approached by appointment, not impulse.
He's young. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.
Ignis headed back to his residence. Outside the wall, portraits of everyone from the Cunning Hares were almost finished—only his was left. He wasn't sure when Emile would have time. After Golden Week, finals weren't far off. Better to wait until the next break.
He pushed the door open and noticed residual heat radiation. Someone had arrived before him.
"Didn't expect you to beat me here."
The Salamander greeted the man admiring the modified power armor.
"You people are something else—going out without locking the door."
Cerakos turned around.
"I left two bottles of wine on the table. A house-call gift."
"See the snack street across the way?"
Ignis walked over.
"They'll keep an eye on things. How've you been?"
"Not bad."
Cerakos shrugged.
"After Golden Week, Cecilia took on some small jobs. We teamed up and handled them smoothly. She's gotten a bit full of herself—thinks she'll make a name soon. Should I knock her down a peg, stop her from taking on something too dangerous?"
"If young people aren't hot-blooded, they aren't young."
Ignis met his blue eyes squarely.
"Instead of suppressing her, let her try risky commissions. Let her see what real human nature inside a Hollow looks like. You can't always be there. Letting her take a few hits can be good."
"You sound awfully experienced."
Ignis didn't tell him that as a child, he'd clung to old sergeants, begging to be taken on difficult missions—always watched from the shadows, saved at the last moment.
"Were you never young?"
Ignis said instead.
"I'll take your advice."
He stepped up to the mechanical platform controls.
"Try it on. See if it fits."
Flexible mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, gripping the power armor into position.
Cerakos donned his neural muscle suit, and Ignis directed the platform to help him suit up. Compared to the modular Mark X design, this primarily Mark VII set was noticeably more cumbersome to wear.
Especially with non-standard parts—like the Mark V riveted pauldron and the mixed Mark VII helmet with a Mark II faceplate. The platform AI took an extra two seconds to figure out the installation.
Once the jump pack was installed and the power unit activated, the armor was fully donned.
"How is it? Any warnings from the auto-systems?"
Ignis asked.
"No issues on self-check. Even the jump pack is fixed?"
Cerakos could hardly believe it.
"Grace repaired it."
Ignis explained calmly.
"She was fast—found suitable replacement materials in a day and swapped out the damaged energy conduits. Check the fit. Any loose or tight spots?"
"None."
He touched the helmet's faceplate.
"It feels tailor-made."
"I once dreamed of inheriting Sergeant Calyx's armor. I just didn't expect it to be like this."
He removed the helmet, his expression dimming. The mentor he admired had fallen by his own blade. Even prepared, the pain remained.
"Better than wasting it."
Ignis shifted the topic.
"Want to try the Lightning Claw? Only one left, but it's better than nothing."
Crackle.
Zzzzt.
With the sound of electricity, the Lightning Claw on the left arm flared to life. Blue light and dancing arcs signaled the disintegration field's activation. The weapon was a gift from the Salamanders Chapter, and during repairs, Ignis had recognized familiar forging techniques.
Those of Sergeant Volkanic.
An unspoken bond tied him to Cerakos.
"I'll use this weapon to protect my new life."
The Lamenter deactivated the field, the blue glow fading.
Cerakos' gaze was drawn to a crate in the materials pile. Covered in Imperial sigils—the Aquila, winged skulls, even the Inquisition's mark—and plastered with purity seals.
"What's that? I feel something calling to me."
"A daemon weapon. I sealed it."
Ignis sighed.
"Don't pay it any mind. It's malicious. It will try to control you."
"You keep something like that around?"
Cerakos was surprised.
"I can't get rid of it."
Ignis rubbed his temples.
"I've tried."
He'd thrown it into a furnace, burned it at extreme temperatures—it wouldn't melt. Khorne's blessing made it immune to ordinary flames, and even psychic purification failed.
The thing was terrifyingly resilient, and Ignis dared not pour all his psychic strength into it at once. Without protection, backlash was a real risk.
So, the best option was to keep it sealed, until a better solution emerged.
"Looks like you've got your own problems."
Cerakos studied the giant.
"Cecilia took a job—not too big, not too small. Want to come along? Test the armor. If something goes wrong, you can back me up."
"No problem."
Ignis nodded.
"What kind of job?"
"A Bangboo disappearance case."
Cerakos replied.
"Several Bangboo have gone missing around Faunus Quarter. Cecilia decided to take it."
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