Chapter 143: Conan Proactively Lowers His Moral Baseline
Conan scanned Beika Park with a sharp eye, noting every person and object worthy of observation. Even without Gin's direct orders, he couldn't let go of the Legion of 666 Beasts. He had already vowed to track them to the end.
In the first case he encountered upon waking in this new world line, facing the "Exchange Crime" tactics of the Legion, Conan hadn't exactly come home empty-handed, but he hadn't contributed much effective "DPS" either. Ultimately, he'd been forced into a strategic retreat, relying on his former arch-enemy, Gin, to save his life. This rankled deeply in Conan's heart.
However, he had to admit there was some truth to the Eastern proverb: A blessing in disguise.
After being "exceptionally promoted" into the Distillery by Gin, Conan had gained an identity, a residence, and enough money to survive in the new world line. More importantly, he received intelligence support of a caliber he had never experienced as a solo detective.
A detective usually has to investigate every mystery personally, using wisdom to peel back layers of deception. If their intellect slips even slightly, they end up like Kogoro Mouri—accomplishing nothing. A criminal organization, however, doesn't just drop its pawns into a strange place and tell them to start a mission blind. If they did, Gin would be the first to pull his gun and check if the subordinate was a mole intentionally sabotaging the task.
Gin had assigned Conan the task of investigating the Legion, and he had naturally provided the necessary foundational intel. Furthermore, as long as Conan asked—provided it didn't involve core Organization secrets—Gin was an open book. This might have been because Gin saw Conan as a child and chose to "guide" him, but regardless of the reason, it meant that Conan was no longer as lost as he was when he first opened his eyes in this version of the world. He now knew secrets that would never circulate in the public domain.
For instance, to the various criminal societies in Beika, "Territory" was a very serious topic!
Though the principle was unclear, once members of a criminal society gathered in a location for a long time, that place would undergo a change, granting a subtle "buff" to the criminals there. According to "Big Brother" Gin, this rule was summarized by a research executive within the Organization and confirmed through multiple tests.
While the various small syndicates in Beika might not have the talent to articulate the logic, their "Crime Souls" or "Criminal Instincts" led them to gather in fixed locations subconsciously.
(As a side note, this rule was also discovered and verified by that same research executive.)
When Conan learned this, his first reaction was to make a heavy entry in his mental Traitor's Notebook: If I get the chance, I must sell out this brilliant research executive who figured out the laws of the new world so quickly. Cutting off that 'arm' of the Organization is a priority.
Of course, that was for later!
While the researcher hadn't figured out the "why," the "principle" wasn't that complex to Conan.
According to Gin, although the Japanese government tried its best to cover it up and the media downplayed the reports, Beika Town had recently become the world's most notorious "Super Capital of Crime." Its crime rate was ranked number one globally, leaving the runner-up in the dust. Even an international dark force like the Distillery had become a victim of this environment; their real estate assets were now devalued "accident properties," and Beika enterprises serving the Organization frequently saw their CEOs or executives die abruptly.
Conan remembered the latter vividly. Every time Gin returned to the safe house at night and received a report via text, he would recite the line "Ah, Shinichi Kudo" with such intensity it made Conan's skin crawl.
With public order collapsed to this degree, the citizens of Beika had long since adapted, even if the government pretended everything was fine. Citizens strolling through the park looked relaxed, but the moment a stranger approached, their expressions turned sinister, their Stands flickered behind them, and their hands instinctively moved toward the hilts of knives hidden in their coats.
The knives were rarely drawn, however, because once the strangers sensed the guard, they would keep their distance, and the citizens would relax again.
Beika's social climate had become so "folkloric" that Conan didn't know what to say. Aside from these "normal" citizens, there were others in the crowd—people walking with their heads down in deep thought, who would occasionally look up with a hideous or triumphant laugh and mutter: "XXX, those bastards who ruined you... once I devise the perfect crime, I won't let a single one of them go..."
How did Conan hear them so clearly? He was instinctively drawn to them, following them step-for-step like a shadow. Of course he heard them!
Threads of criminal aura radiated from these individuals, turning into invisible, cryptic smoke that flowed through the air. Occasionally, the aura would thicken in certain spots, and these people—not yet criminals, but with one foot already in the domain—would instinctively walk toward those dense patches. Once there, they would quickly display expressions of "I get it!" or "The plan is perfect!" or "Those guys are dead meat!"
From this alone, Conan understood the principle behind why criminal societies gathered in fixed spots. No criminal soul could refuse a "Holy Land of Cultivation" that granted a +50% speed buff to MO and trick development.
Conan said nothing about it. He simply walked to a public telephone booth in Beika Park and dialed the police station. Holding the receiver in one hand and his red bowtie in the other, he spoke in a deep, magnetic adult male voice:
"I am a good citizen of Beika. I wish to report a suspect about to commit a crime. This person plans to seek revenge against three targets for XXX. The method is XXX. He is currently in Beika Park. Description follows..."
It turns out that one should not ponder criminal plans loudly in public, because you cannot guarantee that there isn't a "Great Detective"—or rather, a Distillery rookie named Edogawa Conan—following you with superhuman hearing!
Minutes later, a police car frame-skipped to the scene and took the guy away. Conan didn't care what happened next. The other citizens in the park continued their strolls as if teleporting police taking away criminals was a daily occurrence. Only those with guilty consciences instinctively moved away.
Conan toyed with his voice-changer, looking satisfied. He wasn't a fool; he had realized that the clothes he'd been wearing since "waking up" in this world were special. Though he didn't know where the gear came from, it gave him the confidence to investigate and attempt to bring the Legion to justice on his own.
Yes, while he had accepted Gin's mission, he had no intention of sharing his findings with the man. He could guess what "action" Gin would take if he got his hands on Legion members.
His investigation continued, but progress was average. He locked onto three suspects, but quickly determined they weren't Legion members—just "regular" aspiring criminals. After sending them all away via "Justice Reporting," Conan fell into contemplation.
Visually, he hadn't gathered much. By the standards of his previous life, everyone in Beika looked suspicious. When everyone is a suspect, no one stands out.
So, Conan relied on his supernatural ability to observe criminal auras. But this plan hit a wall. If Beika Park were truly the Legion's base, given their recent activity, the aura should be skyrocketing, not steady and low.
As he pondered, he noticed the shift in the park. As time passed, the citizens thinned out, replaced by the homeless.
Conan fell silent. With Beika's economy in a tailspin due to the crime-ridden real estate market, other industries were suffering. No rational person wanted to eat at a restaurant where someone had died in the kitchen, or go to a barber whose scissors had recently pierced a heart. Though Beika residents would eventually get used to it, currently, many businesses were failing.
Official relief was sluggish. Or rather, the government had enacted policies, but the "Window Guidance" of the banking sector diverted the funds to those who didn't need it or to overseas markets. The "noble" banks gave umbrellas on sunny days and took them back on rainy ones. This was standard for the Japanese financial system; even a Prime Minister couldn't move them.
Conan knew this because he'd spent nights in the park listening to the homeless curse the heavens. They were business owners who had failed, debtors whose families had scattered, and souls abandoned by the system.
During the day, the park was for citizens. At night, the homeless returned, and the citizens left with expressions of disdain or fear.
Suddenly, a flash of insight hit Conan!
He instinctively jerked his head around, terrified an "Inspiration Stick" would fall from the sky and crush him. Fortunately, outside of a Criminal Domain, things weren't that absurd.
His realization was simple: The Legion of 666 Beasts was likely hiding among the homeless.
To verify this, he moved toward the homeless groups. There, he met an acquaintance: the old man who had given him old clothes and biscuits. He was currently building a windbreak out of cardboard.
"Ah, Conan! It's you," the old man said, his face bruised. "The tent? A group of punks came by yesterday and tore it up. Luckily, some of my old buddies were around and scared them off. Kids these days... no respect for their elders."
Conan stared at the old man's bruises. He remembered the warning about people targeting the homeless at night. It seems the old man had crossed paths with them.
Conan stayed silent. To anyone else, he'd suggest calling the police. But for the homeless, the police were a nightmare; they wouldn't catch the attackers, but they would evict the homeless from the park under the government's "support" policies.
Conan didn't want to question the law, but he felt its limitations. Sometimes, the law simply didn't work for certain people.
Faced with this unsolvable reality, Conan did the only thing he could. He pulled a thick wad of cash from his coat and stuffed it into the old man's arms.
"Grandpa... leave Beika for a while. Try to start over. If this isn't enough, I can give you more..."
The Organization was wealthy and Gin was generous with "mission funds." He had tossed Conan hundreds of thousands of yen for school and more for the park investigation. To Gin, it was just a habit—investing in a talented pawn. To Conan, it was more pocket money than he'd ever had as a wealthy detective's son.
Of course, if the money wasn't put to good use, Gin's "education" would be anything but gentle.
The old man stared at the "fortune" in his hands. His eyes flickered with complexity before he pushed the money back. "Conan... the world is messy. Don't carry this much cash, it's not safe. I appreciate the thought, but I'm old. I can't move much anymore... and I can't leave my drinking buddies."
In his tired eyes, there was only a spark of light when he mentioned his friends. Conan understood. At night, huddled around a lantern with a radio and cheap booze bought with the day's trash-collecting earnings, these men felt like "people" again.
After a long silence, Conan pushed the money back firmly and lowered his voice.
"Grandpa, take it. Like you said, the world is messy. Buy some weapons for defense. Self-defense is legal. If you don't have a source... I know some people. Or, I can teach you how to make your own gear."
Beika was "pure." Even mothers with strollers carried knives for protection. In such an environment, Conan felt it necessary to lower his moral baseline.
If ordinary citizens carried knives, then it was only "reasonable" for a vulnerable homeless man to carry a dozen katanas, five or six chainsaws, and a few Molotov cocktails for "emergency self-defense."
End of Chapter
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