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["Breaking news just in—an appalling and heinous criminal case has come to light following a net-closing operation by the New Eridu Public Security. At 10 PM the night before last, the raid on the Saint Love Behavioral Correction School concluded. In this ten-hour assault, officers from the Janus Quarter Precinct encountered the most brutal violent resistance since the bureau's establishment."]
["According to the on-site commander, when the special response team breached the school's main gate, armed personnel lying in ambush within the tower and school buildings suddenly opened fire, causing at least 19 officers to suffer severe injuries. The rioters used illegally acquired heavy weapons to resist to the bitter end. Ultimately, under a coordinated three-dimensional assault by Public Security officers, dozens of armed militants entrenched on campus were all shot dead."]
["As the investigation deepened, the institution that bore the signboard of a youth behavioral correction facility revealed an unspeakable truth—large quantities of human experimentation equipment were discovered in the autopsy room, and in the prison cells converted from classrooms, inhumane restraint devices remained. Most heartbreaking of all, DNA comparisons confirmed that the 783 youths the school claimed had been transferred to a new campus were all brutally murdered."]
["As public opinion continues to ferment, the Sailing Education Group, to which the school belongs, issued a statement today claiming that although Saint Love Behavioral Correction School operated under its name, it was in fact an independent legal entity, with funding operations and staffing not incorporated into the group's management system. The spokesperson stated that a special task force would be established and a compensation plan launched on humanitarian grounds. A communication channel for families has now been opened."]
["Bringer, Acting Chief Superintendent of the Janus Quarter Branch of the New Eridu Public Security, stated with deep sorrow that the criminal organization lured troubled youths into this hell on earth through forged qualification documents and false advertising. The task force has currently frozen over 14 billion dennies in funds related to the case. Whether a larger protective umbrella exists behind the scenes is under thorough investigation. We will continue to follow developments in this tragedy of humanity."]
The reporter on the television was broadcasting from the cleared ruins of Saint Love Behavioral Correction School. Before withdrawing, the old veteran had practically pulverized the entire site. After all, without doing so, many traces would have been difficult to explain.
Ignis leaned against the sofa, his entire body drained of strength.
The broadcast cut back to the studio, where the anchor was summarizing the news.
["When demons don the cloak of education, when halls of learning become breeding grounds for evil, this alarm bell is one that all of society must heed. We urge parents to carefully vet educational institutions and to immediately call the Public Security tip hotline upon discovering suspicious clues. May tragedy never repeat itself. May all departed souls find rest. This concludes our on-site report."]
Demons? The host actually got that one fact right.
The Salamander let out a long sigh. This was beyond terrible. Emile Volt was dead. He had failed to fulfill his promise. Those children were dead too—every single one, not a single life saved.
This whole thing felt like a farce. Ignis had wagered everything to save that boy, yet there had been nothing he could do. He could only watch helplessly as Emile's soul faded, offered up as a sacrifice to a Chaos god.
That crushing sense of helplessness pressed against his chest until he could hardly breathe. He did not know whether it was psychological—or the lingering poison left by that demon.
The incessant babbling of the television news gave him a headache. He simply turned it off.
Silence fell abruptly around him. Ignis could hear only the beating of his two hearts. That indescribable powerlessness came crashing down once more.
Nicole Demara and the others had gone out to buy supplies. They had planned to leave someone behind to look after him, but the Salamander had insisted he needed no care.
Now he regretted it slightly. If only someone were here to talk to him. The moment he was idle, Emile's face filled his mind, and the boy's voice echoed endlessly…
Although Ignis knew he had done everything within his power, the outcome of failure remained unbearable. Still, at least New Eridu had been preserved.
He suddenly slapped his hands hard against his face. He could not allow himself to sink into despair. Life had to go on. That kid Emile would never want to see him like this.
Even if he was already dead.
The Salamander dragged his heavy body to his feet and walked toward his workshop-bedroom. A mountain of work awaited him—holes large and small riddled his Mark X Gravis Power Armor, spent grenades needed to be remanufactured, weapons required maintenance. Yet he had no strength. Not even physical strength remained in him.
Still, strength or not, he could at least draft a work plan. Ignis manipulated the mechanical platform, lifting sections of the armor to inspect the damage.
The chest plate had been pierced with several holes again. The abdominal plate as well. Ironically, the sturdiest shoulder plate was barely damaged. His gaze finally settled on the left thigh armor, where a prototype eastern dragon emblem was engraved…
The emblem Emile had designed… his very first creation…
The heavy gloom pressed upon his shoulders once more.
He pulled out his phone, wanting to call someone—just to talk. Even a little relief would be better than suffocating in silence.
The best candidate was certainly Jane Doe, but when he dialed, her phone was switched off. The lady was likely busy with work.
He scrolled through his contacts again, then ultimately abandoned the idea. After such a battle, everyone was occupied handling their own affairs. Who would have time to chat with him?
Suddenly, he heard unusual commotion outside his door. It was crying.
Already irritated, Ignis had no intention of dealing with it—but the crying was particularly unpleasant. It was pure wailing, devoid of any genuine emotion, simply grating.
He opened the door and was met with over a dozen news outlets holding microphones and cameras, filming outside his residence.
Before Ignis could make sense of the situation, reporters rushed forward.
"We've heard you were a friend of Emile Volt. Could you tell us what this young painter was like in daily life?"
"Hello, what are your thoughts on Emile Volt's tragic fate?"
What thoughts? What thoughts could I possibly have? I watched him die and could do nothing!
He had intended to explode and drive these pests away, but from the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar figure he despised.
Fritz Volt.
The father who had sent his own son into that hellhole was now kneeling before a portrait Emile had painted of Nicole, weeping. The media surrounded him, snapping photos and recording video, some conducting interviews.
"My son was a genius artist!" he wailed hoarsely, his voice rough, evoking sympathy.
"That damn school deceived us! My child was only there for a few days, and then he was gone!"
"Look at the paintings on these walls—so lifelike! My son had immeasurable potential!"
"And those night market billboards—he painted them all! What a brilliant artist he was!"
"But my child was killed by that correctional school! We can't even find his body! I can only build him a cenotaph!"
He knelt on the ground, pounding it with both fists, appearing devastated. But to Ignis, the performance was nauseating.
He clearly remembered going to the Lehman Brothers Hotel to ask about Emile's whereabouts—how domineering and aggressive this middle-aged man had been. He had insisted that as Emile's father, everything about his son should obey him. He had deliberately sent him to that school just to force obedience.
Ignis clenched his fists. He wanted nothing more than to rush over and punch this animal to death. But reason told him that doing so would only turn the father into a tragic hero, while he would be branded a thug.
He intended to ignore them and turn away, but the reporters surrounding him sensed something unusual.
"Do you know any hidden details?"
"Emile is dead. He was my friend. I am deeply saddened by this." Ignis sighed, trying to keep his tone calm and restrained.
But the moment he spoke, Fritz recognized The Salamander. He scrambled up and grabbed Ignis' pant leg, wailing.
"This gentleman was my son's mentor! A truly good man!" He immediately hoisted the Salamander onto a moral pedestal.
If not for the cameras everywhere, Ignis would have shattered every bone in his body with a single kick.
"He discovered my son's talent for painting and actively supported him. Without him, my son would never have been recognized as such an excellent artist."
"Mr. Fritz says this is true—can you confirm?"
"How did you discover Emile's artistic talent?"
"We've heard from neighbors that you had a good relationship with Emile but conflicts with Mr. Fritz. Could you elaborate?"
The barrage of questions, along with the leech clinging to his leg, aggravated The Salamander greatly. But judging from the situation, if he did not offer some polite statements, he would not be able to leave.
"Yes, I was indeed Emile's friend, and I was the one who discovered his talent for painting. As for financial support, that is inaccurate."
"The money my friends and I paid was not charity. We admired Emile's art and purchased his works."
"You can see the graffiti painted on the exterior wall—that was commissioned by our company from Emile. Its artistic value is immeasurable."
"As for my conflict with Mr. Fritz—are you aware he is a habitual drunk who abuses his child?"
The leech stiffened instantly.
"The first business deal I made with Emile attracted this father. He was drunk at the time, storming in and dragging Emile along. He demanded that I stop using petty sums to lure his son into painting."
"He said his son was meant to become an engineer, a doctor, a lawyer—not some hooligan running around with a paintbrush."
At these words, cameras nearly pressed against Fritz's mouth.
"That day, he assaulted Emile in front of me. The child was seriously injured—several bones fractured. I stopped the violence, and that is the source of our conflict."
"Of course, this is not slander. There happened to be Public Security officers conducting community service nearby that day. He was arrested on the spot and sentenced to several months for domestic violence. These records are verifiable."
The producers accompanying the media crews immediately began making calls to verify the claim. Fritz's expression darkened.
"Well… what are your thoughts on Emile's tragic fate?" a reporter attempted to smooth things over.
"My thoughts? He was murdered."
"That much we know."
"By his father."
"He disliked that his son, after earning money through painting, had opinions about household expenses. So, he sent him into that hellhole. Mr. Fritz—an unemployed worker—where did you get the money for those brand-name clothes and that Golden Week vacation at Willow Resort?"
"After sending your son there, you were afraid I would come looking for you, so you hid in the Lehman Brothers Hotel. These expenditures are also verifiable." Ignis reminded the media.
"Are you suggesting Emile's tragedy originated with his father?"
"Isn't that obvious? And the other children? Want an obedient child?—Then send them to a correctional school. Never considering that children grow up, that they are independent individuals. Isn't it natural for them to have their own thoughts and ideas?"
"Without foolish and cruel parents, there would be no correctional schools. And certainly no hellholes masquerading as such."
"Thank you for your perspective on family education. We will now interview the party concerned."
"By all means." Ignis shook his leg, flinging the vile parasite off. He met a pair of venomous, resentful eyes.
"Mr. Fritz, are this gentleman's statements true?"
Fritz Volt ignored the reporter and opened his mouth in exaggerated wailing, rolling across the ground as if heartbroken beyond measure.
"My son was killed by that school! He's gone! He was an artist with an infinite future!"
No—you never believed that. You thought he was an unproductive delinquent. A delinquent you could beat, because you dared not provoke others.
The man writhed like a maggot, bawling loudly, fueling the Salamander's irritation.
"That Sailing Education Group was only willing to offer 100 million dennies in compensation! My son had boundless potential—that amount wasn't enough!"
Ah. So, all that buildup was for this single sentence.
Ignis let out a relieved laugh. When speechless, people sometimes laugh aloud.
He had never grieved for his son's death. He merely believed he had received too little.
To him, Emile had been a cold child. Now he would become warm dennies. And the label of 'future painter' would raise the price considerably.
Ignis returned inside, shutting the farce beyond his door.
He knew exactly whom he needed to call.
"Good day, Mr. Vito of Lucenti. You still owe me a favor." Ignis drew a deep breath. "Fritz Volt. Martha Volt. I do not wish to see them again. Do you understand?"
"As you wish, Mr. Ignis." Vito of Lucenti exhaled in relief. At last, that monster had given him a task he could accomplish.
Those two names… can be troublesome perhaps—but nonetheless better that than provoking that monster's displeasure.
===BREAK===
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