The Blacksmith's Association has not seen any high-priced commissioned orders lately. It seems that ever since that lunatic gardener died, there have been far fewer wealthy clients seeking custom bespoke blades.
However, there are still a number of practical-use orders, most of them from members of the Hollow Investigative Association. The prices are modest, the required craftsmanship is not complicated, and it essentially amounts to spending a bit of money to arm themselves with something for self-defense inside a Hollow.
People often say that Ether-powered gear driven by W-Engines can fail at the worst times, and a good knife can always prove useful in a critical moment. Most of the orders are for camping knives or other functional tools.
Chump change may be small, but it is still money. Ever since he developed the idea of building himself a motorcycle, Ignis found his account balance growing tight again. In truth, he had never been particularly well-off, and lately there had not been any decent money-making jobs—only expenses.
Although the Cunning Hares had made new breakthroughs in Hollow-related work, thanks to the stir caused by several bold figures doing under-the-table jobs, Nicole and the rest of the Cunning Hares had been receiving a noticeable increase in commissions. Some of them even came from the military, such as maintaining logistics routes within Hollow Zero to prevent certain fools blinded by greed from going after cargo trucks transporting military supplies.
For jobs of that scale, naturally the Cunning Hares mobilized their best. Ignis, however—classified as an injured man by Nicole—was left behind to guard the base. They even brought Amillion along. That left Ignis truly alone.
His physical injuries had more or less healed, and even the damaged bones had mended, but one issue remained unresolved. Having been subjected in rapid succession to the attentions of both Slaanesh and The Emperor, his spirit had remained somewhat listless.
Even though he had increased his sleep time, an indescribable exhaustion still clung to him, stubborn and heavy.
Whenever he worked the forge or focused intently on something, his condition would improve.
Ignis found a crate, loaded the dozen or so knives he had completed over the past few days into it, then contacted the Blacksmith's Association and the Hollow Investigative Association to request official certification for the legality of these tools.
Otherwise, carrying that many blades onto the metro would surely get him stopped by the Public Security officers. Given his appearance, Ignis believed the officers would be quite eager to have a long, friendly chat with him for the sake of a potential first-class merit.
While he probably would not be subjected to physical punishment, wasting several hours of his time would be inevitable.
Unlike other departments, these two associations were highly efficient; within ten minutes both stamped certificates had been sent to Ignis electronically, and reports had already been filed with Public Security.
Because his new jacket was still being made, Ignis was dressed in a plain athletic shirt, work pants, and combat boots. With this outfit, he could easily pass for a retired Defense Force veteran.
Ignis had barely stepped out the door when he encountered people handing out flyers. In truth, there were no wealthy folks around the Cunning Hares' base, so flyers were rare, but whenever someone did appear, the flyers were quickly snatched up. Residents would take them home to fold into paper bowls—at least they were put to use. Most people here spent their money on survival, and no one cared about the flyer content unless it advertised a major supermarket sale.
Seeing that the person handing flyers out was a young girl, Ignis casually took one. A glance told him it was from Saint-Love Youth Behavioral Correction School, the one recently in the news due to a scandal involving an instructor assaulting students.
Ignis genuinely could not understand what purpose handing out such flyers here served. Children in this neighborhood either muddled through public school or had already joined a gang. Did they really expect to find someone here willing to spend tens of thousands sending their kid off for so-called behavioral correction?
Their activities had clearly irritated some gang-affiliated teens. Two or three dozen of them had gathered across the street, holding batons and short knives, their stares hostile.
But the flyer team was not helpless either. Besides the several young girls distributing flyers, there were several instructors with them—wearing anti-stab vests, heavy boots, gear hanging from their belts, including visible electric batons and tear gas.
From their stance alone, those instructors were clearly trained, but for them to end up doing this kind of work probably meant they had not fared well in the Defense Force.
The atmosphere between the two sides was taut. The teens were waiting for an excuse. The instructors were praying to finish distributing these damned flyers as soon as possible.
"Damn it. What kind of idiot thought sending us here to hand out flyers was a good idea?" one instructor muttered quietly, extremely tense, his right hand locked onto his baton.
"Shut up. Do the job assigned from above, or your bonus gets docked," the apparent leader snapped. "If they don't make a move, we don't make a move. If a fight starts, call Public Security immediately."
"I honestly think you can call them now." Ignis walked past them. "Hot-headed kids aren't easy to handle. If they say they'll cut you, they'll cut you."
The rune-tattooed wannabe warriors across the street tensed as the giant approached. Although the local gangs had been cleared recently, these were newly formed groups. But the story of Ignis burning Iron-Claw Bear alive had circulated for a long time. Combined with his massive physique and the hammer hanging at his waist—larger than a human head—no one wanted trouble.
The leader of the Saint-Love group hesitated. Going back might earn him a beating, but staying here would almost certainly mean a battle today—possibly a deadly one. He called for retreat, and they began packing up. The gang teens cheered victoriously, bragging loudly to their friends about their supposed dominance.
Ignis merely thought they were all quite foolish. But then again, people with proper work would not join a gang. If these kids had any chance at legitimate employment, they would not have become street punks. They were too young, rejected by the nearby factories, expelled from public high schools due to bad records. Cast out by their families, they ended up on the streets and met others in the same predicament—thus either striking out on their own or joining a local gang.
And so the youngest and most reckless became the gang leaders' best disposable pieces—bold, legally protected by their age, and naïvely convinced they could rise to the top. They were also the most dangerous.
When Ignis walked past them, the kids instantly fell silent. The pressure radiating from the giant was overwhelming; even the most fearless would not dare make a sound.
But today they planned to celebrate their "victory," likely by pooling money to buy drinks at the 141 Convenience Store. Bangboos did not sell alcohol to minors. And if someone damaged a Bangboo, the store would shut down temporarily—earning those kids the scorn of every resident.
Although a Space Marine could sprint to the metro station, Ignis did not want to become an online meme, so he waited properly for the bus and then planned to transfer to the metro to reach the Blacksmith's Association.
A peculiar sight entered Ignis's field of vision—Emile Volt and his father, Fritz Volt. After the gang teens left, Fritz walked out from a street corner, but upon seeing Ignis at the bus stop, he froze.
Ignis also froze. Shouldn't this man still be in jail? How had he been released so quickly?
Emile approached first with a greeting, and Fritz reluctantly followed, head lowered, not daring to look at Ignis.
"So you're out already?"
"I wrote a letter of understanding, so Public Security agreed to release my dad," Emile explained. "My dad also signed a guarantee that he won't hurt me again."
"Yes, yes," Fritz nodded repeatedly. "I wrote both a statement of remorse and a guarantee. The officers warned me too. One more incident and I'll be doing eighteen months."
"You'd better treat your kid well." Ignis had no interest in the man. He turned to Emile instead. "So, how's it going? That mural we talked about—drawing a few of us on the compound wall. Do you have a draft yet? I'm ready to pay the deposit."
"I do, sort of…" The boy looked embarrassed. "But it's not very good, so I want to revise it. It might take a bit longer."
"No problem. We'll all wait. And you're welcome to visit anytime." Ignis glanced once at Fritz. "Just you, though."
Fritz's face immediately flushed. He felt belittled, far less welcomed than his own son. But remembering how Ignis had lifted him off the ground by his collar last time, he could only maintain a fawning smile.
"Right, right. Your mom said you've been earning money with your drawings." Fritz quickly changed the subject. "We need to head home. Your mom is waiting."
Emile said his polite goodbyes to Ignis. As for his father, Ignis paid him no mind at all.
This man only knew how to bully at home; outside, he was entirely worthless. Even those gang teenagers easily scared him into hiding.
Ignis could only hope the man would not hinder Emile's future. He saw great potential in the boy—he would become an excellent artist.
Watching the two disappear into a dark alleyway, Ignis turned and boarded the bus.