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The 1.5-meter cannon barrel glowed red inside the forge, heated to the limit. This special ether-alloy had exceptional heat resistance; even after Ignis finished cutting the rifling, it still required six full hours of heating before it was ready.
If not for the oversized forge included in this second-hand smithing set, the Salamander wouldn't have been able to perform the final heat treatment at all. The previous owner had apparently forged plenty of zweihänders, ōdachi, and other long weapons—otherwise he wouldn't have built such an absurdly long furnace.
To be safe this time, Ignis didn't dare use a water quench. The quenching vat was filled with machine oil.
With a shrill sizzle and rising white vapor, the cannon barrel cooled in the oil bath. The room's smart system detected the smoke and immediately turned on ventilation, sucking it away. Ignis watched the barrel's thermal signature with his flame vision, waiting until it had fully cooled before removing it.
The silver-white metal would need a coat of paint and some engravings. He wanted to make the muzzle brake into a golden dragon head—and in fact he had already finished it during the long night of heating. But it felt a bit too flashy, and he was slightly embarrassed.
The walls of the barrel were thick and solid; even before heat treatment, he had hammered dragon-scale patterns across its length for decoration. It was a pity he couldn't make a genuine Purity Seal—New Eridu sold sealing wax and parchment, but they were mere imitations, decorations with no sanctity.
The forging itself didn't take long. Enhanced by his muscle coils, the high-resistance alloy submitted to him. Using a high-hardness alloy rod as a hammer, he shaped the barrel little by little. Under the hands of a master smith, the wall thickness was perfectly even.
With the hardest part—the barrel—done, the rest of the receiver would be easier. Those pieces demanded precision, but not materials of such quality. With the smart machining table in his room, he estimated that three to five days would be enough to finish a brand-new autocannon.
He had considered turning the receiver into a bolter, but there was the same problem as always—ammo. New Eridu Defense Forces mainly used energy-based weaponry; as such mass-production of kinetic based ammunition was expensive. And Ignis had no intention of handing over bolter-manufacturing knowledge. Markus' engineers could probably find substitutes for adamantine tips and cook up monkey-model propellant using ether fuel—making a bootleg bolt shell wasn't hard.
But with his warehouse having recently been raided, its security needed improvement. If he recklessly handed over bolt-tech, he might be arming his enemies instead. With Slaanesh cults infiltrated, and Khornate warbands raiding—he could just imagine mutants firing mass-produced monkey-bolts at him.
That was absolutely not a future the Salamander desired. A 40mm autocannon was plenty. Besides, against warp-born demons, close combat was far more effective than bullets—especially with the Emperor's psychic blessing.
He placed the barrel on a rack and pushed open the garage door. The sun was rising.
A whole night had been consumed by heating. Ignis stretched, inhaling the aroma of breakfast drifting through the air.
The weather had grown hotter, the sun rising earlier. Summer had arrived without warning. Workers on the morning shift were already out, used to the growing number of breakfast carts.
After such a long night, Ignis' stomach was howling. He decided to visit his students' stalls. By now, the workers had lost their fear of him—they knew the reformed "bad kids" had learned their craft from this giant. Without his guidance, they wouldn't have affordable hot breakfasts, and they'd still have to watch out for bored delinquents.
Some called him the "Godfather of the Bad Kids," but Ignis waved the nickname off; his only goal had been to help them. He certainly wasn't about to make anyone "an offer they can't refuse."
Seeing their master approach, the boys stiffened. It felt like being told there would be a surprise exam—with one-on-one supervision. Seeing their hands shake from nervousness, Ignis laughed, patting their shoulders and telling them to just work like normal.
Though he could easily empty the carts himself, he respected the line behind him and bought a round from each stall—one share per Cunning Hare.
He noticed each cart displayed Emile's artwork—probably Vesmir's doing. As the local representative among the stall owners, he must have used his small privileges to get Emile a side income.
A good thing—if Emile could earn money through drawing, he could shut his father up and continue on his artistic path.
"Oh, Mr. Ignis! What'll it be? I've got a new flavor today—curry-beef buns. Or do you want the classic scallion-pork?" Vesmir, his chief disciple, wasn't intimidated.
"A new flavor? Let me try it—twenty buns." Ignis appreciated innovation. Food evolved with local tastes. He wasn't a rigid traditionalist; as long as it wasn't something heretical—like strawberries in mapo tofu—he could accept it.
"You got it! My latest creation—please critique it." Vesmir nudged a companion. "Curry beef, twenty, to go!"
"Any trouble lately?" Ignis asked, concerned for the boys.
"Pretty good, actually. The Ailon brothers at the night market are doing great with their smoked-meat pancakes. A famous blogger filmed a video there—then demanded a free meal for 'promotion.'" Vesmir shrugged. "You know how influencers are. Some good, some garbage. This one threatened to send his fans to harass them if they didn't give a freebie. So…"
He handed Ignis the bag.
"They dragged him into an alley and kicked him around. He called the Security Bureau, but you know—we've been giving the Bureau their cut. So, he just got beat for nothing."
"He posted a crying video afterward, and people even showed up to 'seek justice.' But they didn't know we were prepared. The brothers played the unedited phone recording showing the blogger demanding a freebie." Vesmir snorted. "For a 200-Denny pancake. Imagine being that stupid."
Ignis chuckled. "It's not about money. He wanted special treatment, superiority. He was used to extorting freebies—pay and he praises you; refuse and he smears you. So, did the business didn't suffer?"
"Nope! The Ailon brothers posted their footage too—full, uncut. Plus, other store owners came forward saying the blogger had pulled the same stunt. The guy's reputation is ruined. Meanwhile the night market is booming. The Bureau even posted officers to maintain order."
"Oh, right—the St. Love Reform School came again. The officers chased them off. Their lead guy looked stressed out, eyes bloodshot. He nearly tried to grab one of us. If not for the officers, the brothers would've taught them a lesson."
"I think that school's shady. That kid Fischer—after being sent there, he vanished. His parents won't talk, and say the school forbids visitation because he's still 'under reform.' Even real prisons allow visits. I'm worried he might be… gone."
Vesmir kept talking while working.
"Mr. Ignis, do you have a way to look into that school? Fischer wasn't pleasant, but he ran with us. To disappear without a trace is unsettling. And the school keeps advertising at the metro—they think our area is prime recruitment. We've torn their posters down dozens of times, but they keep putting them back."
"I'll look into it. Don't cause trouble—you boys aren't gangsters anymore." Ignis carried the food and headed home.
A behavioral reform school? Ignis snorted. He could already guess the type—pseudo-military training, violence and fear passed off as discipline, breaking "bad kids" into obedience.
He wouldn't need to act personally. Find the address, send Nekomata to take photos and video, pass it to the Security Bureau—that should solve most of it.
If it didn't… then he'd consider taking action himself.