The cruel performance of "improvised painting" finally ended only when the sixth canvas perished.
The bald, stunted artist turned around and pressed his ornate bone-carving knife against his chest, carving a gash across it.
He didn't seem to feel any pain. Instead, he burst into hearty laughter, then dipped his blade in his own blood and flung it toward the crowd, drawing shrieks of delight.
The stench of blood, spilled alcohol, perfume, and the stifling odor of death blended into a nauseating fog. Ignis's nostrils burned, and he felt the veins on his forehead throb with restrained fury.
Around him, people stood reverently, gazing at the squat man as though worshiping an idol.
Francis surveyed his intoxicated audience with a satisfied smile, bowing deeply before striding backstage amid thunderous applause. The "canvases"—those who no longer bled—were left hanging there, displayed as exquisite art pieces.
When the crowd realized that the last canvas had not yet died, their excitement redoubled. They praised the "master's" delicate technique as he gutted the still-living girl, her insides trembling while scarlet "paint" continued to gush forth.
"How was the show?" Priscilla asked, glancing at Ignis, who sat motionless on the sofa. She mistook his silence for awe.
"Ah…" Ignis exhaled slowly, forcing down the rage boiling in his chest. Stay focused. Information first.
He made himself smile—thin, controlled, almost pleasant.
"Indeed, it was a performance unlike any other. Where's the artist? I'd like to have a word with him."
And then I'll smash a bottle of liquor over his head, light him up, and let him truly join his beloved art.
"I knew a craftsman like you would appreciate avant-garde expression." Priscilla's smile was as charming as ever. "Don't worry. If Master Francis is available, I'll arrange a meeting between you two to discuss art."
"But for now, let's drink! Wine is the muse of every artist." She grabbed a bottle, wedging it between her cleavage, and leaned toward Ignis's mouth.
"There's a second half to that saying," Ignis replied, gripping the bottle by its neck and lifting it from her. "Wine may be the artist's muse, but it's also his curse. I'm a blacksmith—I need steady hands. I'll pass."
Though rejection was awkward, Priscilla kept her smile, remembering her orders to keep this "master craftsman" entertained.
"You truly are a man of discipline. I've seen your work—such exquisite blades, so precise and thrilling to look upon."
"Oh? And where did you see them? My commissions are all through the Guild, each marked under my name. None are publicly displayed."
"Our boss—the Gardener," Priscilla said softly as she slid closer, guiding Ignis's arm around her shoulders, pressing herself against him.
Ignis's eyelid twitched. The burning under his scar flared hotter.
"He placed an order through the Guild. You should've seen how delighted he was when he received your knife—he showed it off to all of us."
"What a coincidence, meeting a client in a place like this." Playing along, Ignis squeezed her chestplate.
"Our boss treasures your work. He carries that blade everywhere. He even told me to treat you well—he'll come meet you himself when he's free."
Feeling the giant's grip, Priscilla trembled slightly, leaning closer, pressing herself more firmly into his hand.
Ignis regretted that impulsive move but knew pulling away too quickly would seem unnatural. To keep up the act, he gave another casual squeeze, earning a soft moan from her throat and a faint shiver.
"I see. For a novice smith like me, it's an honor that my blade's appreciated. What kind of man is your employer?"
"Oh, don't ask so many questions. Let's have some fun instead—if you're bored, I'll lose my bonus." Priscilla clapped her hands, and the surrounding women returned, resuming their places beside Ignis. Their perfume made his stomach churn.
Fortunately, the discomfort didn't last long. A man approached, and all the women—even Priscilla—stood to greet him with deep bows.
"Good evening, boss. I was just speaking to our guest about you."
Ignis had expected the owner of such a Slaaneshi den to be a flamboyant figure—garish clothes, strange hair, tattoos maybe. But the man who appeared looked more like a university lecturer than a pleasure lord.
He wore a crisp black suit with a sharply pressed shirt and a red tie pinned by a white tie clip. His hair was slicked to one side with pomade, gleaming under the dim lights. His expression was mild, his smile polite—almost too normal.
And that made him more disturbing.
"Good evening, Master Ignis," the man said as he approached, offering his hand. "I've seen your work, but never you in person. You may call me Von Aurn—or simply, the Gardener."
Ignis lounged back on the sofa, making no move to stand, but reached out and shook his hand.
Von Aurn's brow twitched at the breach of etiquette; a flicker of disgust flashed in his eyes before it vanished behind another pleasant smile. He unbuttoned his jacket with deliberate calm.
Ignis noticed it all—the micro-expression, the tension, the facade. The man's scent lingered on his fingers afterward—a cloying, hypnotic fragrance.
A gift from Slaanesh to his devotees—a pheromonal lure that could twist mortal minds. Ignis knew that smell all too well.
The Gardener opened his jacket, revealing a vest with two sheathed blades strapped across it.
"Your craftsmanship brings me joy," he said, drawing the twin knives. Their serpentine curves gleamed with Damascus patterns of gold and silver, intricate and decadent.
"To be honest," Ignis said, sitting forward slightly, "I wondered who'd commission something so impractical. Figures it'd be a wealthy fop who loves shiny things."
Von Aurn's cheek twitched. "Your blades aren't just beautiful—they're deadly sharp. These have tasted blood, Master."
"Really? They still look like decorations to me," Ignis said flatly, tilting his head in mock disdain. "Pretty toys for parlor displays."
"Oh? Then what do you think a real weapon should look like?" Von Aurn sheathed the knives again, the golden and silver inlays forming a violet bloom across the scabbard.
Ignis chuckled, reaching inside his jacket. Von Aurn's gaze followed the movement, hungry, fixated.
With a metallic shing, Ignis drew his own blade—his first creation forged here—a combat knife designed for an Adeptus Astartes.
For a human, it was closer to a short sword than a knife.
With a solid thunk, he drove the blade into the liquor-soaked wooden table. Von Aurn's eyes locked onto it immediately.
Unlike his own ornate weapons, Ignis's knife was brutally plain—no ornamentation, only raw metal. The handle was a simple wrapped grip, the full guard rugged and functional, every line screaming purpose.
Yet in that simplicity lay a savage beauty—a purity of design meant only for killing.
Von Aurn's breathing quickened. His heart pounded. His tailored suit suddenly seemed too tight against his skin.
Watching him pant like a hunting dog, Ignis smirked. This man's obsession with blades bordered on the deranged.
"Master… may I—may I see that blade?" Von Aurn stammered, trembling with barely contained excitement.
"Of course," Ignis replied calmly, nudging the hilt toward him. "But you'll have to pull it out yourself."
Von Aurn gripped the handle, tugged—nothing. The knife was buried deep, immovable.
He tried again, straining harder each time. Muscles bulged beneath his shirt. Priscilla rushed forward to collect his jacket as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing sinewy arms.
Still, the blade didn't budge. Veins stood out along his forearms. His vest strained against his chest until buttons popped. The scholar's facade shattered, revealing the brute beneath—red-faced, teeth bared, muttering curses through clenched jaws.
At last, the knife loosened slightly, and his eyes lit with triumph. He twisted the blade side to side, working it free.
Something's wrong with him, Ignis realized, studying the unnatural swell of muscle beneath the man's skin. That body isn't real. It's a glamour—a facade.
The burn beneath his facial scar intensified, sharpening his focus. Time to test just how dangerous this "Gardener" really was.
With a final wrench and a sharp clang, Von Aurn stumbled backward, the combat knife finally freed.
He caressed the blade lovingly, pressing it against his cheek as if savoring the touch of a lover's skin.
"This blade…" His voice trembled with ecstasy. "I can feel every strike of your hammer in its steel. The raw, unpolished vigor—no embellishment, only truth. This… this is perfection. A true weapon."
"Master, would you—would you part with it? Please?" His eyes gleamed feverishly, almost predatory.
"My first weapon is for myself," Ignis replied coolly, gripping the hilt as he reclaimed it. "It's not for sale. But if you like the design, I can quote you a price for a replica."
"No, no!" Von Aurn shook his head violently. "It must be this one! The original! I'll trade you anything—anything! Name your price!"
"Anything?" Ignis gave a humorless chuckle. "You wouldn't give me what I want."
"Say it! Whatever it is, I'll give it!" Von Aurn's body quivered; his breath came in ragged gasps, like a drug addict in withdrawal.
"Sorry," Ignis said, sliding the blade back into its hidden sheath. "I made myself clear. This one's not for sale. It's my first piece here."
Von Aurn's gaze clung to the weapon until it vanished beneath the jacket.
"I'm feeling a bit tired," Ignis said with a false smile. "The show was… impressive. I believe guests are allowed private rooms after the main act. If you'll excuse me."
"Of course, of course." Von Aurn turned to Priscilla, voice dripping with command. "See that my honored guest is well taken care of. Make sure Master Ignis enjoys his stay—thoroughly."