Ignis burst out of the door, his newly forged combat knife gripped firmly in his hand.
A Public Security officer in a tactical suit immediately stepped in front of him.
"Sir, you can't go out there! We have the situation under control! Armored and air support will be here in a few minutes!"
"Relax. I can take care of myself." Ignis lowered his hands slightly, palms down, signaling calm. "Tell me what's happening."
The officer hesitated, glancing up at the towering giant—and then at the blade in his hand, longer than the man's own arm. With a resigned sigh, he stepped aside.
"If you must see for yourself, please stay behind our line," the officer insisted, knowing full well he couldn't stop him but still bound by duty to warn him.
Ignis nodded and fell in step beside him.
To the left of the Cunning Hares' residence was a three-way intersection where two officers had been stationed.
Ignis had often wondered what kind of gang would be stupid enough to approach a place guarded by Public Security—but then again, if the Mountain Lion Gang really had fallen to Khorne's corruption, any madness was possible.
They'd probably get excited seeing law enforcement waiting for them; the Blood God cared not whose blood flowed, only that it did.
But the one they'd stopped tonight wasn't a crazed cultist—he was terrified.
One officer stayed at his post while the other brought over a man shaking like a leaf.
"Sir! He claims someone's after him!" the escorting officer reported, before returning to his position.
"Officer! Please—lock me up! Put me in a cell, now!"
The tattooed gang member dropped to his knees before the commanding officer, clutching at his leg like a drowning man.
"Don't leave me out here! Please! I—I'm a bad man! I've killed people—lots of people! Just throw me in jail already!"
Ignis exchanged a look with the officer, both momentarily speechless.
"…Turning himself in, huh? I'll send him back to HQ," the officer said, pressing the comm unit on his shoulder to call a patrol car.
"They're coming! The Mountain Lion Gang! Those lunatics are coming! You should run too!" the gang member blurted out, crying as the police dragged him to the car.
The mention of Mountain Lion Gang made everyone tense. The officer snapped orders, rallying the team and calling for backup.
Fewer than twenty Public Security personnel were on-site—half equipped with metal riot shields and electric batons, the rest carrying bullpup rifles.
They formed a defensive line, shields interlocked with a narrow gap for the riflemen to fire through.
"Too few," Ignis muttered behind them, his massive form looming like a walking tank.
"I suggest you fall back inside," the officer in charge said quietly. "Leave this to the professionals."
Ignis couldn't exactly explain, but fighting Chaos-tainted zealots was far beyond their capability.
"I'm a professional too," he said flatly. "And with your numbers, you won't hold for long. Don't worry—I'll manage myself."
The officer dropped his gaze, unwilling to argue the obvious. He raised his sidearm and prepared for contact.
Shadows flickered around the corner—followed by distant shouting.
"Run! Don't let them catch you!"
"They're insane! All of them!"
Dozens of gangsters burst from the intersection, faces twisted in panic.
Seeing the officers' shield wall, they froze for a second.
"It's the cops! Good! Take us in! The Mountain Lion Gang won't follow us into a cell!" one of them shouted, sprinting toward safety.
The rest followed, tripping over each other in their scramble—dropping machetes, axes, and homemade guns as they came.
"We surrender! Don't shoot!"
At least fifty or sixty of them—an entire mob—flooded toward the officers.
Normally, this would've been a Public Security dream: mass arrests served on a silver platter.
But tonight, the real problem was the group chasing them.
"Get out of the way! Move to the back! Find cover!" the commanding officer barked, nearly panicking as the gangsters blocked the firing lanes. "Clear the front! Now!"
The terrified men obeyed, scattering to the sides and crouching against the wall behind the shields.
Then, for the first time, Ignis saw the Mountain Lion Gang.
They emerged from the darkness clad in crude red-painted armor—scrap metal plates, spiked shoulder guards, bloodstained helmets.
Their weapons were monstrous cleavers, sawblade axes, nail-studded clubs—tools designed to maximize bloodshed.
Some had human heads impaled on the spikes of their armor.
"Open fire!"
With that order, the night erupted into gunfire.
Rifles barked, brass casings clattering, forming a storm of lead down the open street.
But the bullets barely slowed them.
Unless struck through the heart or head, the cultists didn't stop—they only roared louder, howling as they charged.
The shield-bearers' hands trembled. In any normal case, criminals broke and ran at the first gunfire. But tonight, these maniacs pressed forward, eyes gleaming with fanatical ecstasy.
Bullets couldn't halt them—and electric batons would be useless.
Ignis's brow furrowed. The taint of Khorne was unmistakable. These weren't mere gangsters—they were blessed by the Blood God himself.
This squad of twenty wouldn't last long.
Doing nothing wasn't in his nature.
The Salamander bent low, and then—like a black hurricane—charged straight into the oncoming mob.
The first few cultists were hurled backward as if hit by a tank, torn apart midair by a single sweeping slash.
For a brief moment, the attackers hesitated—then, seeing the towering figure, they howled even louder. A worthy skull for the Blood God.
But human reflexes—even warped by Chaos—couldn't match a Space Marine's speed.
Ignis's blade flashed—a single arc cleaving five heretics in two. He spun, carving a bloody circle around himself.
The officers watched in stunned silence as their supposed "VIP" waded through the cultists like a god of war.
The commander ordered the shield wall forward, firing and throwing grenades to provide cover, desperate to extract him.
But Ignis didn't need help. The heretics couldn't touch him. Even the few who tried grappling him were either crushed outright or died choking on his burning phlegm—a trick only a Salamander could pull off.
The combat knife howled through the air, slicing bodies apart in sprays of crimson. Ignis fought like a living inferno, each strike a perfect mix of strength and control.
Then—he heard it. A deep, grinding roar.
Ignis turned—and met a pair of wild, blood-crazed eyes.
Razor.
He had never seen the man before, but he knew instantly. The aura, the weapon—the massive chainsaw axe adorned with the mark of Khorne—there was no mistaking it.
Razor stood nearly as tall as Ignis, his left arm encased in a crackling metal prosthetic sparking with electricity.
His horned helmet bore the Blood God's sigil, and his "chest armor" was nothing but a circular No Parking sign strapped on with belts.
His right hand—mutated into a crimson claw—gripped the chainsaw axe.
The two giants locked eyes.
Ignis broke off from the lesser cultists, charging straight toward Razor. The warlord roared and met him head-on.
They collided like titans. Sparks flew as Ignis caught the chainsaw blade between his combat knife and gauntlet.
Razor's finger clenched the trigger—the chain screamed, grinding against Ignis's steel. The knife began to warp from the friction.
Ignis shoved hard. Razor stumbled back, his balance broken.
In a blur, the Salamander lunged forward, driving a kick square into his chest.
The makeshift armor shattered—the "No Parking" sign split in half as Razor was hurled several meters away.
He crashed to the ground, coughing blood. Several ribs were definitely broken. It was the first time—since his "blessing"—that he had felt pain.
So, this was the Salamander his god had spoken of.
And yet… he was losing. Even with divine augmentation, he was outmatched.
His men tried to rush in—but each one was slain in a single strike.
Every move Ignis made was clean, lethal, efficient—there was no wasted motion, no mercy.
Then came the worst sound Razor could imagine—the wail of sirens and the heavy thrum of rotor blades approaching fast.
Plenty of sacrifices already, he told himself. No point dying here.
"I'm not running because I fear him," Razor muttered through broken teeth. "Just… the cops came too fast."
He roared, "Fall back!"
And like shadows scattering at dawn, the Mountain Lion Gang broke off, diving into the maze of alleys.
Only a few completely deranged ones stayed—and they too were quickly cut down.
Reinforcements flooded in—armored vehicles blocking streets, helicopters sweeping searchlights over the maze below.
But Ignis knew what that meant: rash pursuit would only get good officers killed tonight.
He stood amidst the corpses, blade dripping red, eyes fixed on the dark alley where Razor had vanished.
The hunt had only just begun.