Chapter 146: Big Brother Gin's Power is With Me
The swarm entered the fray, launching a direct assault on the scarred man and his subordinates. Their weapons were a mismatched collection—some had simply snatched bricks from the roadside. Their Stands weren't particularly powerful, but they fought with a frenzied, primal savagery. Their aura was terrifying; one look was enough to know these men were here to trade their lives for blood.
"Tch. A troublesome old dog, actually gathering a pack of filthy beasts..."
The cold, scarred man muttered under his breath. He was no ordinary citizen; his expression remained unchanged.
"Just a pack of old, weak, and sickly stray dogs. Let's contribute our share to the urban image of Beika Town. Boys, with me!"
With those words, the cold man rolled his shoulders, shedding his suit and shirt to reveal a torso covered in tattoos. He charged forward, followed immediately by his gang enforcers and punks.
In terms of raw numbers, the Legion of 666 Beasts undoubtedly held the advantage. However, battle isn't decided by numbers alone; the scarred man's side included several professional "Street Brawlers."
Though he was only the leader of a branch organization, to root oneself in a demonic capital of crime like Beika required unquestionable professional competence. His Stand was a testament to that—a towering, savage Rakshasa Demon. Once it acted, it was unstoppable; ordinary "small fry" couldn't even get close.
But he didn't waste time on the small fry. He forcibly smashed through all obstacles, charging straight for the old man!
"Old dog, die!"
"Heh... that's the trouble with the life. There are always old debts to pay. Whether you can take this old dog's life, however, depends on your skill..."
The old man, whose legs were stiff and who usually struggled even against common punks, showed no fear. On the back of his hand, the Blood Oath Beast-Head Mark glowed brilliantly. His Stand, previously blurry and weak, suddenly solidified. It transformed into a majestic, muscular Vajra Guardian, swinging its massive fists as it charged.
By then, the scarred man had reached the old man, throwing a straight punch. The old man countered with one of his own. Their fists collided directly. Simultaneously, their Stands—the Rakshasa and the Vajra—slammed their fists together, creating a massive metallic boom that echoed through the park!
The battle instantly reached a fever pitch. Both men employed combat techniques unique to the Japanese underworld: tensing the body to tank hits with raw spirit and flesh, focusing entirely on the offensive. They used "Self-Style" moves honed through high-intensity street wars, attacking the enemy's vitals with a "you die or I die" philosophy.
While it lacked the grace of formal martial arts, the sheer blood-lust and ferocity meant that even a professional fighter might not fare well against such street masters.
As the Users grappled, the Rakshasa and Vajra traded a flurry of blows. But minutes into the fight, the scarred man sensed something was wrong. The old man's fighting level was... absurd.
The man was old and riddled with injuries from his youth. Homelessness and lack of care should have hollowed out his vitality. His blurry Stand had been a symptom of his decaying fortune.
But now, his Stand was restored. Even his strength and stamina were not those of a seventy-year-old; his strikes were heavy and ruthless, as if he were back in his prime.
Conan knew the reason. The mark on his own hand acted as a communication hub, and it was currently buzzing with information.
"Old man, you have to win! To that end, I demand you become younger! Become stronger!" one member of the Legion shouted through the Blood Oath.
In the next moment, the glow on the old man's mark intensified, turning into invisible energy that flowed through him. His bare torso underwent a visible change: wrinkles and age spots faded, his skin tightened, and his muscles surged with renewed life. Even the Vajra tattoo on his back seemed to grow more menacing.
A binding Blood Oath could do more than just command actions; it could affect reality itself.
Through the mark, the old man's voice rang out: "Thanks. This old man won't let you down. We are one, we are the swarm! In the Lord's name, what falls on me shall return to you. You, too, shall become stronger! Now, let's make a magnificent scene!"
Conan felt a sudden heat in his chest. His blood began to boil, and he felt a surge of endless strength, a primal urge to smash something.
The others used the binding oath to demand the old man get stronger, and the old man used it to demand everyone get stronger. Even if Conan didn't know if this buff was permanent, he realized the old man's mastery over Stand logic was terrifying.
Conan didn't let the impulse cloud his mind. His hyper-rationality kept him calm, but his heart continued to sink. The Criminal Mist was rising. In the sky, the Skeleton Reaper was whispering, a cryptic "Requiem from the Underworld" echoing through the air. Its scythe was descending toward the necks of everyone below.
Conan knew that soon, bodies would start to drop. Not just one or two, but dozens.
For a detective, watching a massacre unfold before his eyes was a nightmare. What was worse was being unable to stop it. In his past cases, there was one killer, maybe an accomplice, a victim, and a few witnesses. Including the police, the total was usually under ten.
Now, in this park, hundreds of people were simultaneously the "Killer" and the "Victim," tearing into each other. Until the fight ended, their identities were fluid. If he still had Moriarty's power, he could suppress this with one hand. But now, he was just a first-grader.
But Conan was a "Monster of Rationality." He had negative emotions, but they couldn't take root. Within a few breaths, he shook off the despair and focused on a solution.
The case was still in its infancy. The scarred man's gang would likely be wiped out or forced to retreat. The old man's call for the swarm suggested he had been planning this for a long time.
In Beika, any criminal plan—no matter how flamboyant—had an abnormally high success rate if implemented. Logic often failed, but results were consistent; it was a "buff" of the city itself. (Excluding the idiots who mutter their plans out loud for Conan to hear.)
The gang would fall. But the case wouldn't end with their defeat. On the contrary, it would officially begin: A city-wide riot with the homeless as the core.
Their motive? Conan thought back to the "Night Feast." For these men, returning to society or decapitating the Prime Minister was equally impossible. That was the tragic reality. And now, the old man had given them a "Possibility." The fire was lit.
Conan knew he couldn't just watch. He pulled out his phone and dialed Gin.
The line clicked open. Silence followed—only a cold, cruel presence could be felt through the speaker.
Conan didn't waste time. He explained that a riot-level case was being born in Beika. He stated bluntly:
"Big Brother Gin, this is the situation. A massive case that will sweep through Beika is being born. I've infiltrated the Legion of 666 Beasts and have a connection with the 'Beast King.' I think I can handle this, but I need support."
Conan was gambling. He bet that Gin didn't want a riot in Beika. A riot meant devaluing Organization assets and unwanted heat. A top-20 syndicate causing a national stir would eventually draw attention to the number-one syndicate: the Distillery.
The silence lasted so long Conan thought the call had dropped. Finally, Gin spoke:
"What is your objective?"
It was a question, but also a test. The Distillery wasn't the police; they didn't care about "Justice." Conan, having been Moriarty, knew how to speak their language.
"My objective is to keep the situation controlled and ensure the Organization's assets are unharmed. I want to use this as a pivot to deepen our control over Beika—and at the very least, harvest some profit during the chaos."
Another long silence. Then: "What do you need?"
Conan suppressed his joy. "A sufficient level of deterrence, and the necessary force to apply at the critical moment!"
"What you seek will arrive soon. Conan, you are impressive. I do not wish to hear the word 'failure' from you."
The call ended. Conan exhaled.
In the distance, Gin was driving his Porsche, searching the world for the "Magical Girl" who attacked the Organization. He hung up and a rare smile touched his lips.
When he saw Conan's name, he thought the brat was calling for rescue. He was just a first-grader, after all. But hearing Conan's report left Gin momentarily stunned.
In under three hours since school ended, the kid had infiltrated the Legion, befriended its leader, and uncovered a long-premeditated riot plot.
Gin, being far from the scene, compared the Legion's status to the Organization's. To him, it felt like Conan had spent three hours joining the Distillery, befriending Karasuma, and learning the Boss's deepest secrets.
What kind of efficiency is this? Gin thought. Are you a natural-born 'Mole Saint'?
He was more than impressed by Conan's "Organization-first" explanation of his goals. For a moment, Gin felt a strange sense of pride. The day Conan became a star of the Distillery was no longer in the distant future; it was today.
In a Distillery full of "useless wine-bags" who forced him to work overtime, there was finally a worthy successor.
Gin gave a satisfied smile. Vodka, sitting next to him, was dying to ask what was happening. Gin handed something to Vodka.
"I'm sending a report to the Boss. We're giving Conan an official mission to earn a codename. Take this to the park. Stay there and follow his orders. Support him fully."
Vodka was flabbergasted. Gin was already arranging a codename? Fine, he knew the Boss liked the kid. But him—a formal member and Gin's partner—becoming an underling for a peripheral rookie who wasn't even "officially" in yet?
But seeing the smile on Gin's face, Vodka swallowed his complaints. He leaped from the car and vanished.
Minutes later, Vodka frame-skipped into the park. He was startled by the scale of the brawl. Conan spotted him and waved. Vodka pushed through the crowd to reach him.
"Kid, you're something else. Big Brother told me to back you up. Take this. If you need anything, just say it. I'll help as long as it isn't too crazy—for Big Brother's sake."
Vodka handed Conan an object. It was a Handgun.
Boundless, majestic killing intent radiated from the metal.
"This is Big Brother's personal gun," Vodka explained. "This is your 'Deterrence.' Inside is a single bullet injected with Gin's Stand ability. Use it when necessary. It can kill anything in heaven or on earth. But... do you even know how to shoot?"
Conan felt a surge of energy. Gin was truly reliable. This was the gun that had almost killed him.
End of Chapter
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