Chapter 147: The Skeleton Reaper Shot Dead by the Elementary School Reaper
"I know how to shoot. I learned it while wandering in Haw... Hawaii during the summer. I won't say much more for now. I'm going to work. Big Brother Vodka, wait for my signal..."
Conan took a deep breath, crouched down, and twisted the dial on his shoes once more. A brilliant glow erupted.
Then, he leaped. The formidable Detective Flying Kick reappeared, but this time, the target was the space between the brawling old man and the scarred man.
Hearing the sound of thunder and wind rushing toward them, both men instinctively dove aside!
With a loud BOOM, Conan crushed the pavement with his kick, creating a literal cratered boundary that separated the two combatants.
"Both of you, stop! As long as I am here today, I will not let this situation spiral toward the worst possible outcome!"
Though the scarred man didn't know who Conan was, he didn't need to ask. Witnessing a kid pull off a flying kick that surpassed human strength was enough to know Conan was not to be trifled with.
"Kid, you've got a big mouth. But if you're willing to lend a hand and help me finish off this old dog, the White Dragon Group will reward you handsomely!"
Conan ignored him. He stared fixedly at the old man. He locked eyes with those pupils that were no longer kind and gentle, but filled with cold severity and madness.
For a moment, the chaotic scene of hundreds of "killers" brawling fell silent. Conan spoke slowly:
"Old man, stop this. Not for yourself, but for your old buddies. Whatever your plan or goal is, there is no happy ending at the end of this road. They will only be sacrificed for nothing..."
Due to the heavy stacking of Blood Oaths, the elderly homeless man's body was shed of its frailty. His hair and beard turned black, and his face shifted from that of a kindly senior back into the visage of a scarred, fierce yakuza veteran.
"Conan boy, I'm starting to regret bringing you to our party. You're too naive. You're right; if this continues, my buddies might fall one by one. But do you think they are 'living well' as it is...?"
Conan remained silent. His skin wasn't thick enough to deny that obvious fact. Surviving was a struggle—but surviving a struggle wasn't the same as seeking death.
"Old man, I don't know exactly how you plan to start a riot. But you should know that Beika Town is not a simple place. It never lacks heroes, and it certainly never lacks criminals. Doing anything here carries a heavy price. I think you should reconsider. Or... consider a change of scenery. I heard the treatment for homeless people in America is pretty good. If you're interested, I can find you a snakehead and negotiate a group price for smuggling..."
Once the moral baseline is lowered, it's hard to pull it back up. Conan had stopped trying to convince the old man with talk of "justice" or "kindness." He was using other angles now.
And his logic was sound. If this were anywhere else, fine. but this was Beika.
If the Legion of 666 Beasts really tried to sweep through the city, neither the Beika Police nor the other top-ranked syndicates would sit idle. Setting aside the "Super Villains" lurking in the shadows, the police had their own "Super Hero," Inspector Megure. Conan had seen his new-world abilities; if Megure summoned the "Stand Progenitor Shinichi Kudo" for a kick or two, the entire Legion wouldn't survive the impact.
In this era, trying to subvert Beika was equivalent to challenging every Super Hero and Super Villain single-handedly. It wasn't cost-effective.
"Of course, to you, I'm just a naive child whose words carry no weight. That's why I called in a favor to get something with real gravity..."
With that, Conan slowly extended his hand, revealing the gun Gin had given him.
Though it just sat in his palm and wasn't pointed at anyone, the moment the weapon was shown, a cold and majestic killing intent swept across the park.
Birds took flight in alarm. The noisy battlefield grew quiet. Many felt a heavy, terrifying pressure weigh down on their hearts.
The majestic killing intent turned into an invisible darkness, pushing its way into the budding legendary case with brute force. It coiled around Conan, arrogantly declaring its presence. Its ferocity was such that even the Skeleton Reaper condensed from the Criminal Mist in the sky instinctively backed away.
The Saint of Slaughter, who carried the destiny of the entire "Black Side" of this world, had granted Conan exactly the deterrence he needed via this pistol.
The scarred man's hair stood on end. Sensing a lethal threat, he entered a stress response and retreated into a defensive stance. "Just a pistol... yet it carries such incredible killing intent. Who is the master of this weapon!?"
The old man's expression turned solemn as well. Clearly, he sensed the raw power behind that aura.
Conan held the gun and said seriously:
"Old man, you can look down on the officials and ignore the other heroes of Beika. But this is advice coming from the very apex of Beika's crime rankings. I suggest you consider it carefully. Because... solving a problem might be hard, but solving the person who creates the problem is quite easy!"
Conan suddenly gripped the gun and pointed it at the old man!
His eyes became cold and savage; a bloodless, chilling smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
The killing intent on the gun intensified. Faintly, a shrill, ghostly wind whistled past, and a half-hallucinatory tide of blood roared outward in all directions. A draconic roar of killing intent erupted alongside the wind and blood.
The gun held a single bullet personally infused by Gin. It possessed the power to slay gods.
Conan had felt this power firsthand. He never imagined that one day, he would hold this gun and aim that power at someone else. But it didn't matter. He racked his brain for the "Psychological Game Theory" his father, Yusaku, had taught him in Hawaii.
Deterrence is a gaming technique. When regular communication fails and a situation is about to reach its worst-case scenario, deterrence is often the key move. It is both a forceful attempt to salvage the situation and a rehearsal for the worst outcome.
The core of deterrence is this: if you want someone to believe you, you must truly hold the resolve to pull the trigger.
Conan was striving to do exactly that, and it didn't seem too difficult. Not just because he had been Moriarty, but because lately he had been meticulously studying Gin. He recorded every word and action of the Saint of Slaughter in his "Traitor's Notebook," gradually gaining insight.
Conan knew exactly what a stone-hearted outlaw—one who viewed killing as a routine and whose word was law—should look like.
In the distance, Vodka rubbed his eyes. For a split second, he thought he saw a "Mini-Gin" standing there. From the expression to the eyes, even the cold killing intent and the smirk—the essence was identical.
Vodka was a criminal, but his mind started racing: Being this similar... it's hard to call it a coincidence. Did Big Brother... back in the day... HISS!!!
Vodka gasped at his own deduction. His eyes grew sharp: No wonder Big Brother is so invested in this kid! He insisted on him living in the safe house, taught him personally, and gave him so much support. The truth is out: Conan is Big Brother Gin's long-lost child!
"Great Detective" Vodka felt he had solved the case!
Faced with the lethal gun and the suffocating killing intent, the old man took a deep breath.
"Beika Town wasn't always like this. We weren't rich like the big shots, but jobs were easy to find and life was livable. People were friendly. Even the yakuza spoke of 'Benevolence and Justice.' But at some point, jobs vanished. Life became a struggle. Even the underworld became sinister. For various reasons, we became homeless. And finally... all friendliness and justice left us."
"Simply being a vagrant is treated like an original sin. Even sleeping on the street gets you chased away like a pest for 'ruining the city's image.' Scavenging trash to be self-reliant gets you attacked by punks. All because we are down and out? Because we can't pay taxes? Because we are old and can't 'contribute'? Because of this, we should just die quietly in an unknown corner?"
"Are we wrong? Or is this world wrong?"
The old man's voice was thunderous, heard by everyone. The hidden rage and violence in his words caused the morale of the Legion to skyrocket; they became even more vicious.
But in the next instant, a killing intent far more terrifying than before descended. Conan had placed his finger on the trigger and applied the slightest bit of pressure.
The old man ignored the threat. Though his body was that of a man in his prime, his soul remained immersed in his cold, twilight years.
"If it had stayed that way, we would have no choice but to accept our fate. But destiny gave us another possibility. Conan boy, you wanted to know about the 'Lord' the Legion worships? I'll tell you..."
The old man reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of shards!
There were five of them, like obsidian crystals. Conan's pupils shrank.
"I found a shard while picking through trash," the old man continued. "From that moment on, I heard a cryptic whisper. It echoed in my mind, in my dreams, every second, every minute, endlessly. At first, I didn't understand. But gradually, I did. The whisper told me about politics, about society, about seeing the essence through the phenomenon—defining the truth of the Pitch-Black Will..."
"But that's not the point. The more I listened, the more I understood. I learned who that Great Existence is. The first Super Hero of humanity, the generational inheritor of the Pitch-Black Will, the sole source of all Stands... the Thrice-Great Detective, Shinichi Kudo. These shards are his Holy Remains scattered across the world. By touching them, Shinichi Kudo chose me. He kept saying to me: 'Do something big... you must do something big...'."
Conan wanted to scream: I AM NOT! I DID NOT! STOP TALKING NONSENSE! But he couldn't say it.
"Shinichi Kudo chose and blessed me. I learned forbidden knowledge through his whispers. But it was too late. I am old. My mind is no longer agile, and my body won't allow me to do 'great things' myself. But there are still things a man with one foot in the grave can do. Things he must do..."
The old man grew increasingly fanatical. Conan's heart sank further. He realized his deterrence was going to fail. How do you threaten a man who does not fear death?
"Shinichi Kudo is the light that shines on the world, the hope of all humanity. If the world is sick and wrong, only He, who carries the Pitch-Black Will, has the possibility to reshape everything. My only task is to use my blood to plant the hope for Shinichi Kudo's return. No one—not even the terrifying master of slaughter behind you—can stop me. Because I am prepared..."
The old man suddenly gripped the five shards! He squeezed so hard they pierced his palm; blood flowed instantly.
"We are the beasts who eat filth! we walk the path of martyrdom! With Beika as our sacrifice, we shall ignite the turmoil and darkness! We shall use this fire as the Savior of us evil men, building the light for his return! We use our sacrifice and flesh as the stairs for him to step back into the world! We may not see the holy moment the Savior returns to correct the world's errors... but the success doesn't need to happen 'by' me, as long as it happens 'because' of me! All is promised by the generational Pitch-Black Will of the Kudo family!"
At this, Conan finally snapped.
"The Kudo family doesn't have a damn 'Generational Pitch-Black Will'! And Shinichi Kudo is just a regular high school detective, not a savior for 'evil men'! If he could solve the social problem of homelessness in Japan, what would we need a Prime Minister for!? STOP PINNING EVERYTHING ON SHINICHI KUDO!!!"
But the words were meaningless now.
The moment the blood touched the five fragments, they mutated. Fine tentacles sprouted, burrowing into the old man's body. His torso began to swell and deform. The massive Criminal Mist roared, turning into black pus that seeped into him. Even the Skeleton Reaper in the sky descended, intending to merge with him.
Using the fragments, the old man chose to embrace sin and forcibly sublimate within the case!
"One shard can sublimate a life," the old man said, his eyes deep and calm amidst the mutation. "Five shards, however, only bring a 'Wrongful Distortion.' But because of that, I shall become a weapon of destruction to clear all obstacles. This was my contingency. Now... this is your last chance. While I am still human, will you shoot me and send me on my way?"
Conan's finger slowly relaxed on the trigger.
The old man stared at Conan and suddenly laughed. "I wasn't wrong about you. You are a naive child, but a splendid young man. Do not blame yourself for failing to stop this. In this world, there are many problems that cannot be solved with kindness. They require the slaughter of blood and fire..."
In the next heartbeat, Conan's eyes became unprecedentedly cold. His finger slammed back against the trigger.
"I agree with you. Some problems... truly do require slaughter to solve."
BANG!
A sound like a tearing draconic roar echoed through the heavens, announcing the arrival of the Mandate of Slaughter.
The pitch-black bullet tore through the sky. But its target wasn't the old man.
It was the descending Skeleton Reaper.
The Reaper, condensed from the Criminal Mist, was hit in the chest. It lifted its head in a daze, mouth opening and closing as if questioning... but whatever it said was lost. The wound in its chest expanded until the entire entity shattered into fragments.
In the previous case, Megure had summoned Shinichi to kick away half the difficulty. From that, Conan had a hypothesis: in this new world line, the Case itself is an object that can be attacked.
What Shinichi Kudo could do, Conan believed Gin could do as well!
It was a gamble! But Conan didn't hesitate to push his chips onto the table. He shot the symbol of the case—the Reaper—effectively "murdering" the legendary case itself while it was still in its infancy.
Because the case was still budding, the mist and the Reaper were on the threshold of reality. The onlookers didn't even know what that shot, filled with world-shaking killing intent, had actually hit.
Conan didn't know if his gamble worked yet. The sight before him made his gaze waver.
The old man's skin turned black, but he didn't transform into a Xiao Hei. His body continued to deform—flesh proliferating, melting, twisting, and restructuring. A monster was being born.
"We, the Beasts of 666, offer a burning Beika Town to my Lord, Shinichi Kudo! May the errors of the world be corrected!"
The old man left his final roar as a human. The hideous monster was an amorphous mass, but its scale was unprecedented—fifty meters tall, a mountain of flesh. It waved its tentacles, ready to crush everything, and began to move toward the city center to fulfill the final will of the riot.
The scarred man lit another cigarette. His Stand, the Rakshasa Demon, pulled out a lighter for him. "Heh... Beika is getting harder to live in every day. Homeless guys turning into Tokusatsu Kaiju. I wonder if the Boss at HQ will believe that I can't pay the tribute because of a monster attack..."
Clearly, this was not how he wanted things to go.
"No. This isn't the ending yet. We can still stop it!"
Conan's resolve remained firm. He had seen the effect of the shot. Though the situation had worsened, the Criminal Mist had stopped expanding. It was capped at its current scale. This meant the case would not birth a "Super Criminal Domain" covering the city, nor would it trigger the most difficult supernatural phenomena.
Furthermore, the death of the Reaper had a chain effect. The morale of the Legion members plummeted. They didn't riot; they looked at the monster with primal terror. The old man had never told his buddies his plan involved turning into that.
Conan turned to the scarred man. "Next, I need your assistance to handle this."
The scarred man took a drag of his cigarette. "To fight that Kaiju? That's a big ask."
Conan had no liking for the man or his gang. His tone was anything but polite.
"It wasn't a request. It's advice. I speak for the will that stands at the apex of Beika's crime world. You had best behave..."
The scarred man looked at the gun in Conan's hand—the bullet was gone, but the killing intent remained savage. "You paying? The tribute pressure this month is heavy."
"No," Conan said. "In fact, I'll likely be collecting 'protection fees' from you later. My own performance targets are high, and I need results. After that, I'll be stripping the waste recovery business from your group to establish a dedicated fund for helping Beika's homeless reintegrate into society. Oh, and if the officials investigate afterward, make sure you hand over plenty of fall guys. Write your confessions clearly. Leave no loose ends."
The scarred man choked on his smoke, staring at Conan in disbelief.
"You want us to fight a monster, pay you protection money, lose our core business, and take the fall for the cops!? What's left for us!?"
Conan spoke with the weight of ages: "You're a grown man. Don't ask such naive questions. You know the price for making mistakes in this city. More importantly, our Organization—the one at the top—has been disturbed by your mess. Letting us handle it for this price is a bargain. After all... your family is still alive, isn't it?"
If he were still "Shinichi Kudo," he could never have said those words. But now, as a rising star of the Distillery doing the Organization's work, Conan was uninhibited. He was playing the "Bad Guy" to grind the scarred man into submission.
Conan had realized the law was sluggish and limited. It didn't always provide justice. So, he chose to make the man pay in his own way.
As for whether it would work? He wasn't worried. The deterrence of the Organization—and "Big Brother" Gin—was absolute.
End of Chapter
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