Chapter 144: The True Face of the Legion of 666 Beasts
It was the old homeless man's turn to fall silent. He looked deeply at Conan.
Conan's gaze was sincere. Out of his own morality, he wanted to repay the kindness of a meal and a set of clothes; out of his own sense of justice, he couldn't bear to see the homeless falling victim to evil.
"The world is indeed chaotic. Self-defense is necessary," the old man sighed. "I'll accept your kindness, Conan boy. You haven't eaten yet, have you? Care to join us for a meal?"
Conan wanted to gather intelligence anyway, so he agreed. The old man led him to a clearing where other homeless people were gathered.
The others didn't pay much attention to the child. Having finished tidying their meager shelters, they were eager to begin their one hour of rare daily happiness. An old radio played music while cheap cans of beer clinked together.
Wine doesn't intoxicate; man intoxicates himself. For the homeless, a buzz was the cheapest and most beautiful form of joy.
Under the influence of alcohol, they could forget the crushing weight of reality. they talked loudly about things that no longer mattered to them—though every third sentence was a curse directed at the "dog-shit" Japanese officials and politicians. Occasionally, the conversation drifted to the past. A man might pull out a photo, gaze at it, and burst into uncontrollable tears.
Not every homeless person chooses to crawl at the bottom of society. They want to climb back up, to be "normal," to reclaim their families and bonds. But unfortunately, sometimes it isn't a lack of will, but a lack of way.
Conan sat among them, holding two skewers of oden he didn't eat, watching silently. He was looking for members of the Legion of 666 Beasts, but it was proving difficult.
These men were in rags; none showed any "beast" elements. As for suspicion... put it this way: every man here had a tragic, hateful, or pitiful past. Each carried at least three distinct criminal motives. At any moment, any one of them could transform into an outlaw, storm the Ministry of Finance, and personally decapitate the Prime Minister and the entire cabinet.
Yet, in Conan's eyes, these homeless men were "cleaner" than the average Beika citizens who looked like they were on the verge of darkening. The cruelty of reality had ground away their spirit. Merely surviving consumed all their energy; they lacked the passion for crime. Their bodies were frail, and their Stands were blurry and weak. They weren't fit for the high-intensity work of professional crime.
Logic told Conan the Legion was here, but the details told him these men were the least likely suspects.
The simple yet warm park feast continued. Someone began to sing—a tuneless melody, seemingly improvised, with few lyrics but a heavy sense of desolation.
After a while, the old man beside Conan began to hum:
"We are despised by God, we are the unclean spirits, we are the beasts possessed, we are the martyrs who eat filth, but we are the swarm, and we are one, we are the Great Crowd of Beasts..."
The old man acted as a lead singer. Gradually, all the homeless joined in, singing in unison as if it were a long-standing habit. Under the lantern light, their shadows merged into one giant silhouette.
The well-read Conan immediately recognized the lyrics: they were from Mark 5 of the New Testament.
But that wasn't the point. The point was that these lyrics explained everything. Conan never expected the kind old man beside him to be a member of the Legion of 666 Beasts.
It was a psychological blind spot. In the previous case, the Legion member had been arrogant and evil. This old man radiated nothing but kindness.
After the song, the old man looked at Conan and smiled. "In the past, I had a neighbor who was a believer. They read the Bible constantly; it was quite annoying. I hated it then, but now that I'm old and my memory is failing, I've forgotten the beautiful things. Strangely, I remember the annoying bits clearly—including Mark Chapter 5."
He reached out and patted Conan's head.
"Conan boy, you are a kind lad. It doesn't matter who you are or what you've been through. if you're in trouble, come to me. My old buddies and I will help you."
The old man took Conan's hand, covering it with his broad, calloused palm. Conan noticed something: the old man's pinky finger had been severed.
Suddenly, Conan felt a surge of heat on the back of his hand. When the old man let go, Conan saw an abstract, hideous mark: a multi-horned, one-eyed serpent head.
The old man turned to the crowd. "Boys, cheer! A young pup with a bright future has joined us!"
"Hahaha! Kid, you're impressive to catch the old dog's eye!" "The old man might be toothless, but his eyes are sharp. You must be a top-tier stray dog!"
The old man clearly held high prestige. The others raised their beers in a warm, welcoming gesture. Conan stared at the old man in bewilderment. The old man smiled and explained:
"The world is hard now. No one helps old farts like us. To survive, we have to huddle together. So, I formed the Beika Park Stray Dog Mutual Aid Group. The mission is simple: you help me, I help you. It just so happens I have a Stand ability called [Blood Oath]. That mark on your hand is my oath to you. I will help you once, no matter how dangerous the task."
Information flooded Conan's mind. He could "input" a task he strongly desired into the mark, forming a binding contract. The oath would return to the old man to be fulfilled. In return, the mark wouldn't vanish until Conan fulfilled a "Blood Oath" from the other side.
The true nature of the ability was an exchange of wishes. Conan's mark suddenly heated up; an incoming oath appeared:
[Give me 300,000 Yen]
This was exactly the amount Conan had given the old man. The oath flashed and vanished. One side of the promise was already fulfilled. Now, Conan had a "one-sided wish" remaining.
"The name 'Beika Park Stray Dog Mutual Aid Group' feels a bit... off," Conan muttered.
The old man laughed, thinking Conan found it uncool. "It's fitting, isn't it? But the boys found it a bit demeaning, so we use the name Legion of 666 Beasts. Sounds intimidating, doesn't it? I got it from Mark 5. But names aside, we're still just stray dogs. We have a slogan, too..."
"At twenty or thirty, you want to be a man; at forty or fifty, you hate that you didn't become a man; at sixty or seventy, you just want to die like a man."
Slapping Conan's shoulder, the old man's laugh was hearty, carrying a trace of unyielding spirit.
The truth was out. The notorious "Legion of 666 Beasts" was just a group of homeless men huddled together for warmth. Their "Exchange Crimes" were just "Exchange Favors" gone wrong.
Conan looked at the kind eyes of the old man. "Grandpa... I've heard of the Legion. They've committed many 'Exchange Crimes.' Is this really just about helping each other?"
The old man's laughter subsided. "Conan boy, you're quite well-informed for a kid. You're comfortable with crime and know strange channels. If your sense of justice weren't so strong, I'd think you were a child soldier from some terrible organization."
Conan stiffened. The old man's intuition was frighteningly accurate.
"It's harder to survive than you think," the old man continued. "We have no money, no skills, and failing health. My buddy over there got sick and needed medical fees we couldn't raise. So, I made a Blood Oath with a man who looked troubled but had money. He gave us the cash, and in return, he asked me for a 'difficult favor.' My old bones couldn't do it, so I used a new Blood Oath to get someone else to help. Over time... we gained a reputation we didn't ask for."
The Legion was built on the core of "I help you, you help me."
Conan didn't know what to say. An ability meant for survival had spiraled into a criminal network. "Aren't you afraid of the law?"
"The Law? Hahaha!" The old man's laugh carried a hint of contempt. "Kid, going to prison would be a happy ending for us. But didn't you see the news? Prisons are overflowing with the elderly. It's harder for an old homeless man to get into a cell than for a young man. The big shots don't want to waste tax money on 'trash' like us. They'd rather 'solve' us other ways. If I want the law to notice me, I have to do something truly big so the big shots see me as a person."
The old man's words hinted at a cruel reality: the government didn't want to save them; they wanted them to die quietly in corners. If they were arrested, the police just confiscated their cardboard homes and "moved them along." No free meals in prison.
Conan fell into a grim silence. Then he looked up. "And the 'Lord'? The one the Legion worships?"
He remembered the fanatical culprit from the earlier case holding the Moriarty shard.
The old man smiled. "You really know a lot. The Lord is—"
He was interrupted by a commotion nearby.
"BAKA-YARO! You social dregs who shame the Japanese nation, come out! We're here to take out the trash!"
A group of punks with baseball bats approached, using exaggerated "thug" slang. The old man's face hardened.
"They're back. Conan, leave."
"Don't fight them," Conan said, standing up. "I'll call the police—"
"Don't. The big shots want the streets cleaned for appearances. These punks are just 'gloves' for someone else. It's fine. Even old dogs have a few teeth left."
The old man stood and stripped off his shirt, revealing a body covered in wrinkles and scars. On his back was a massive, glaring Vajra tattoo. He roared:
"Whose dogs are you!? Identify yourselves according to the rules of the street!"
The other homeless men stood up with pipes and summoned their weak, blurry Stands. But the punks were younger, their Stands clearer and more violent.
Conan was out of his depth with yakuza-style standoffs. If he called the police, the homeless would be evicted. He couldn't exactly step out and announce he was a member of the Distillery—the Number One organization in Beika—to settle the dispute. That would be too "low" for Gin's tastes.
But then, the situation shifted into Conan's familiar territory.
As the two groups argued, Criminal Mist began to creep across the clearing. It was fierce—blotting out the moonlight. The mist coalesced into a Grim Reaper with a Scythe, looking down cruelly at the two groups.
Conan gasped. Through his "energy-reading" ability, he knew a mass-casualty event was about to occur. Strangely, the Reaper silhouette seemed to glance at him and nod, as if saying hello.
This is wrong, Conan thought. Even if the homeless and punks fought, it wouldn't create an omen of this magnitude. A much greater darkness was approaching, intending to commit a world-shaking atrocity.
Conan's Detective Soul went into overdrive. He reached into his coat for his phone. He had Gin's number on speed dial.
Inspector Megure could summon "Shinichi" as an ultimate move. Conan, though Stand-less, had a similar ace. One call, and the world's top-tier Saint of Slaughter would descend.
Conan felt a profound sense of sadness that his "safety" now came from an international crime syndicate.
Conan, Conan... you're a righteous mole, he told himself. You cannot become dependent on the Organization!
End of Chapter
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