The middleman Markus introduced was, much like him, dressed for a party that had never ended—a walking fireworks display of bad taste. Beneath a pink silk shirt, he wore a red sequined blazer that shimmered under the dim streetlights. A reflective scarf draped across his shoulders completed the look, turning him into something between a disco ball and a caution sign.
"You must be the guest Mr. Buffon referred to! Welcome, welcome!" The man clasped his hands together politely when he saw Ignis step out of the shadows. "You can call me Polaris."
Ignis didn't bother pointing out that Buffon was obviously Markus under an alias. He just nodded.
"You came alone?" Polaris craned his neck, peering behind Ignis. Then, as if remembering something crucial, he smacked his forehead. The sequins rippled like fish scales.
"Right, right! This particular venue—not exactly the place to bring a lady companion, if you catch my drift."
Ignis cast a glance around. The supposed "exclusive establishment" looked anything but glamorous. The border between the Faunus District and the Outer Ring was more wasteland than city—if not for the nearby highway, there wouldn't have been any streetlights at all. The only standing structure was a shabby gas station selling snacks and bottled water.
"Doesn't look much like the kind of place with the legendary reputation you mentioned," Ignis said, towering over the sequined man like a shadow over a puddle.
"Ah, sir, that's the point!" Polaris grinned, his teeth unnaturally white. "This is a secret, members-only venue. Usually impossible to enter unless you know the right people. But me—"
He tugged open his jacket and produced a jeweled switchblade. With a dramatic flick—click—the blade popped open… only to reveal a silver comb. He slicked back his oiled pompadour with exaggerated flair before snapping it shut and tucking it back into his coat pocket.
"I, the most dazzling party icon in all of New Eridu, can get you in anywhere. A tour of the city's finest pleasures—guaranteed."
Then he froze in place, striking a pose.
Ignis got the hint. He reached into his jacket and handed over a neat stack of worn, untraceable banknotes.
"Old bills. Unnumbered. Spend them freely."
Polaris took them with a grin so wide it almost reached his ears. "A gentleman so well-prepared must be quite popular with the ladies! I guarantee you'll have an unforgettable evening."
"Though…" His eyes darted to the hammer at Ignis's waist. "That beauty right there—probably not allowed inside."
"Don't worry about that," Ignis said, drawing the weapon slightly. "I've heard they welcome artists—painters, musicians, sculptors. I happen to be a smith. My works sell for a tidy sum at the Blacksmith Association. So if other artists can bring their tools, surely a blacksmith is entitled to carry his own."
"Ah… ha ha… yes, yes, of course." Polaris's laugh was nervous but compliant. No one argued with a man like Ignis. "Right this way, sir."
He led the way toward the gas station, talking incessantly about his own popularity, bragging that there was no venue in New Eridu where his name didn't open doors.
Ignis ignored the chatter, focusing instead on the terrain. Nothing out of the ordinary—just another roadside station. A few Outer Ring bikers lounged nearby, drinking beer and swapping exaggerated stories.
Then Polaris led him behind the gas station, where the stench hit like a wall. A massive sewage pipe loomed ahead, reeking of rot and chemicals.
Polaris's smile faltered, but he pressed on, trying to look professional. "This way, sir."
The pipe was enormous—wide enough for Ignis to walk comfortably inside. After a few turns, the odor suddenly vanished, replaced by dry, stagnant air. This section was clearly an unused conduit.
The place set Ignis's nerves on edge—not because of the smell, but because the setting was too familiar. It reminded him of his first encounter with the followers of Slaanesh.
He took a slow breath to steady himself. The holy sigil on his chest was calm—no immediate sign of corruption. Still, he silently memorized each turn. If he needed to return wearing his power armor, he'd know exactly how to find this route again—and deliver righteous cleansing fire.
They stopped before an iron door. Polaris knocked. A small hatch slid open, revealing a pair of eyes behind it.
"It's me," Polaris said, stepping aside so the watcher could see him clearly. "I've brought a reliable friend."
The hinges groaned. The door opened. The doorman was a muscular man, shirtless except for a spiked collar and a full head mask that only exposed his eyes and mouth.
"This way, sir. The Garden awaits," Polaris said grandly, striding inside and gesturing for Ignis to follow.
"Wait—you can't bring that weapon in," the guard said, blocking Ignis with a hand that smelled faintly… sweet. Oddly sweet.
"I told you, sir," Polaris murmured, trying to slip a few bills into the guard's pocket. "Let's not make trouble."
But the guard caught his hand before the money could vanish.
"I'm with the Blacksmiths' Association," Ignis said evenly, raising the hammer so the man could see. "My latest works sold for six figures apiece. I suggest you learn who you're speaking to."
The hammer gleamed under the dim lights—gold engravings of a dragon's head curling along its side, ruby eyes glittering with lifelike menace. The guard hesitated, clearly unsure who he was dealing with, and finally lifted his comm unit to call upstairs.
While they waited, Polaris kept nervously flattering Ignis, whispering promises to take him somewhere else if this fell through.
Moments later, the guard received his reply. "The boss says it's fine. The forgemaster's welcome to bring his tool. He's heard of your work."
With that, the man stepped aside and gestured toward a staircase leading down.
Polaris led the way with renewed enthusiasm, talking nonstop again.
"They've got the hottest girls in New Eridu here," he said, eyebrows practically dancing. "Top-notch performances too! Last time, I brought a guest and there was this famous dancer—amazing show. The male and female leads interlocked while performing—truly a marvel of flexibility!"
"The drinks are top-tier—rare imports, custom mixes, even some black-market stuff if you're in the mood for something strong. Just ask the bartender—costs a bit extra, that's all."
"The kitchen's incredible too! Whether you crave street ramen, greasy fried chicken, Outer Ring-style barbecue, or a full-course gourmet dinner—they'll make it. Nothing's off-limits here!"
Polaris's face flushed red with excitement as he spoke. Ignis noticed the air thickening—a subtle, perfumed scent creeping in, warm and heavy. It made his temples throb.
Something was wrong.
The spiral staircase descended for what felt like ten minutes, burrowing deep underground—thirty, maybe forty meters below the surface.
At the bottom, red carpet stretched ahead toward a closed set of ornate doors. Two rows of masked men—built like the guard above—stood on either side.
A woman in a revealing dress awaited them, smiling sweetly.
"Welcome, dear guest," she said, stepping forward and naturally looping her arm around Ignis's. Her soft chest pressed against the back of his hand. "Oh, Polaris Polaris, my darling friend—I'll remember you."
"Haha, the honor's mine, Miss Priscilla," Polaris said, retreating quickly—maybe too quickly. "My task here is done, sir. If you'll excuse me!"
He turned and bolted up the stairs before Ignis could say a word.
"Oh, what a hasty man," Priscilla murmured, smiling up at Ignis. "No matter. I'll make sure you're well taken care of."
"Appreciate it," Ignis said curtly, slipping his arm free from her grasp.
Priscilla blinked—not used to rejection—but duty called. She turned gracefully, her gown swaying as she led him forward.
"My, you're so strong," she purred. "Are all smiths built like this?"
Her dress was nearly backless, exposing flawless, pale skin down to the base of her spine. Every movement made her curves shift just enough to catch the eye—a weaponized display of temptation.
Ignis didn't look twice. His jaw tightened. The holy brand on his skin burned faintly—a warning.
There was corruption here. He could feel it.
Of all the Chaos Gods, Ignis despised Slaanesh the most—the one who twisted passion into perversion, emotion into endless hunger.
He had spent a lifetime mastering his impulses. His education, his training, his scars—all reminders that desire must remain shackled. Because if he ever lost control… it would be like a boulder tumbling down a mountain.
He drew a deep breath, steadying himself.
His faith was iron.
His will was steel.
And no whisper of lust or sin would break them.