Chapter 145: Conan's Unofficial Movie — (The Beika Swarm Riot Case)
Only Conan perceived the omens as the Criminal Mist began to unfurl. The argument between the old homeless man and the punk leader grew more heated, escalating into shoving and physical friction, but overall, both sides remained "restrained."
Despite the spit flying and faces turning red with rage, their Stands hovered calmly behind them—completely unmoving. Conan breathed a sigh of relief. Through snippets of their shouting, he began to piece together the history of this dispute.
The origin traced back to before the Stand Era. Certain politicians had proposed an initiative to "remodel the urban image" to better showcase Japan's advancement to the world. It was a good initiative on paper, and the government passed it quickly. However, following the typical "official nature" of the bureaucracy, their policies failed to consider the homeless.
In the eyes of the officials, these "dirty and messy" individuals were a stain on the pride of the Great Japanese Nation. No matter how clean a street was, it couldn't look "advanced" if it was lined with the homeless.
What? You say according to American standards, the more homeless there are, the more advanced the city? Japan's skin was thick, but it hadn't reached American levels of audacity yet.
Aid was out of the question—precious taxpayer money wouldn't be "wasted" on such things. So, they chose eviction. But even eviction couldn't be done openly. If it were, the citizens, who might personally dislike the homeless but still held Western liberal values of public sympathy, would cause a political firestorm for the opposition party to exploit.
Faced with this, seasoned politicians followed the "Drow Elf tradition": as long as the conspiracy happens in the dark where no one sees, it didn't happen. A subtle glance was exchanged, and certain people understood the assignment.
Since WWII, due to Japan's unique national conditions, the link between politics and the underworld had become commonplace. At its peak, the families of local councilors were essentially the uncrowned kings of the regional yakuza. The heads of political factions in Tokyo were politicians by day and Ghost Kings by night, chatting amiably with cults and massive criminal syndicates.
In many Japanese anime about Onmyoji, the "Lord of Demons" resides in Kyoto. That setting has always been quite realistic.
The old man and his group were targeted under these circumstances. But it wasn't just at the behest of politicians; it was also because a certain organization in Beika had a conflict of interest with the homeless regarding "business."
The yakuza ecology in Japan is complex. Outsiders see the average age of members reaching seventy or eighty and think they are declining. In truth, the underworld has grown deeper and more rooted.
An old-school syndicate might appear to be shrinking due to police crackdowns, but their profitable business had shifted to a more secretive model: [Pension Tributes].
The model is simple: An elite veteran takes a few underlings and forms a new, separate "Office." The parent organization provides the network, connections, and the protection of their name. In exchange, they harvest the majority of the profits. If quotas aren't met, the "Office" head faces anything from a reprimand to physical punishment. If they succeed brilliantly, they eventually drink the "blood sake," join the main family, and move from being a "tribute-paying worker" to a "tribute-sharing boss."
Even the police can't keep track of how many sub-groups an old-school syndicate has. Their personnel, locations, and businesses shift constantly. A tiny pawn shop or lending "Office" with two members might be backed by a massive network.
This system creates a perfect talent pipeline and an unbreakable economic web. But "all things that reach their peak must decline." The parent organizations have grown greedy, increasing tribute ratios and tightening recruitment. They want more people paying in and fewer people sharing the take. This is why traditional gangs are aging—new blood can't get into the "inner circle." Instead, the children of high-ranking cadres return from elite Western universities to take over "legitimate" shell corporations, laundering the organization's money while the lower tiers suffer.
The victims of this rot were the bottom-tier yakuzas. Across the Japanese internet, keywords like "Tributes are too high, how do I pay?" have trended. To make ends meet, these sub-groups tried anything—even selling bubble tea.
In Beika, one such sub-group handled "Waste Recovery and Processing." They had a major grievance with the homeless who scavenged their "inventory." Their solution: send in punks (peripheral members) to intimidate them.
Normally, a few beatings would send a homeless man packing. But the old man was a former yakuza veteran from the "golden age." He didn't take kindly to these "Offices" and, by uniting the homeless, had held his ground.
Conan listened, getting a crash course in Japanese political-criminal ties and the underworld economy. But knowing the why didn't help him deduce where the "World-Shaking Case" was coming from. The Criminal Mist was growing, and Conan was getting anxious.
Just then, the shoving turned into violence. The punks, bottom-tier "non-professionals," were obsessed with "Face." If they couldn't handle a few old men, how could they report back to their boss? Impatient and aggressive, they finally swung their baseball bats!
The old man, though aged and physically worn from his youth in the underworld, still had his instincts. He dodged a bat aimed at his head and delivered a sharp hand-chop to the punk's throat. The youth's eyes bulged as he fell to his knees clutching his neck. The old man finished with a kick to send him sprawling.
"KILL THEM!" the punks roared. They lunged forward, and their Stands lunged with them. The homeless men gritted their teeth, swinging pipes alongside their own blurry Stands.
The moment the brawl began, the Skeleton Reaper within the mist smiled silently. Its black robes expanded, swallowing the light of the moon. The earth was being draped in the shroud of Death.
The change in the heavens signaled the blooming of a legendary Flower of Evil, watered by slaughter. The Reaper was waiting for the fruit of destruction to fall.
Strangely, Conan felt the black robes were intentionally avoiding him. But that didn't matter. With his "Criminal Eye," Conan confirmed that this ordinary park brawl was the catalyst for an atrocity. He had to stop it.
He opened his Stun-Gun Wristwatch and aimed!
Psh! A needle flew, and a punk collapsed. Conan's face was cold. Psh! Psh! Psh! Three more punks hit the dirt without a sound.
"Sneaky brat! You're dead!" One punk spotted him and charged with a bat. Conan was out of needles, but he didn't care. He crouched and twisted a dial on his shoes.
[Power-Enhancing Kick Shoes: Activated]
Sparks of electricity danced around his feet. Conan had intended to use his soccer ball belt, but the punk's Stand was already upon him. He leaped. His enhanced leg strength turned him into a rising meteor. The punk didn't even react before a streak of light passed his eyes.
His Stand wasn't hit directly, but the shockwave alone sent it spinning through the air. The punk's baseball bat shattered into splinters. BOOM! Conan's flying kick landed on the pavement, cratering the ground—three meters wide, two meters deep.
The punk swallowed hard. If that had hit a person, they would be meat paste.
Conan wiped cold sweat from his brow. He hadn't been able to test his "God-tier Gear" under Gin's nose. He hadn't realized the shoes were this potent. If he hadn't manually adjusted his aim, it would have been the "Beika Park Punk Dismemberment Case."
Regardless, his intervention froze the scene. The punks weren't idiots; even if the attacker was a child, that kick proved he was out of their league.
"Who... who are you!?" the leader stammered.
The old man laughed heartily. "Don't think we're just old stray dogs. Dogs have a wild side that can turn into wolves. This kid? He's the future Beast King of our Legion of 666 Beasts! If you value your lives, tuck your tails and run!"
Conan winced at the "Beast King" title but said nothing. He addressed the punks: "Cherish your lives. Leave before death truly descends!"
Conan hoped to stall the case to give him time to think. But the punk leader's eyes were bloodshot with humiliation. "Leave!? And tell the Boss we were scared off by a brat? GET THE REINFORCEMENTS!"
One punk activated a Stand ability: [Gale Advance]. It allowed up to 100 people to teleport once to the Stand's coordinates! He fired a flare into the air. BOOM! Dozens of men suddenly appeared.
Conan's head throbbed. With a strategic-tier ability like that, why are you a street punk!? The situation had turned into a nightmare. From the crowd, a cold man in a suit with a scar running across his face stepped forward.
"I knew these punks were useless, but I didn't expect them to call for help so soon. Kongou Saburo... or should I say 'Old Stray Dog.' It's been a long time. Remember how I got this scar?"
The old man froze, recognizing the face. "So you're still alive..."
The scarred man lit a cigarette. "You stormed our office alone to avenge your assassinated boss. You killed many, quite impressive. But by the time you reached me, you were spent. You only managed to leave this scar. Those old stories are boring now. In this era, killing is outdated; the 'Office' only cares about money. But the tributes are getting higher, and you trash are in the way. Remember: I'm here for the money, not the old grudge."
But his eyes said otherwise.
Conan ignored the drama. He raised his wristwatch. The needles had magically replenished—he didn't know how, but he didn't care. He planned to "capture the king" to stop the brawl.
The scarred man didn't notice Conan. He turned to the other homeless men and sneered: "You fools. This old man looks kind, but he's insane. When he was on the streets, he was known for being ruthless. His boss died because of his reckless methods. You think he united you for 'mutual aid'? He's more insane than you think. He's going to use your lives to start a Riot in Beika..."
Conan froze. He remembered the old man's slogan: At sixty or seventy, you just want to die like a man.
Conan looked at the old man. The kind, gentle face had turned sharp and cold. He didn't deny it.
Above, the Skeleton Reaper raised its scythe. Its skull face now perfectly mirrored the old man's murderous expression.
In that instant, Conan truly understood what the "World's Top Capital of Crime" meant. It wasn't just the high murder rate, the citizens carrying knives, or the countless syndicates.
The true "Gold Standard" of Beika was that even a homeless old man in a park was plotting a large-scale riot—and was actually putting it into practice, resonating with the World's Killing Intent to birth a "World-Shaking Case."
After a long silence, the old man spoke: "I'll correct you on one point. My old buddies... they already know. But if we 'Stray Dogs' want those big shots to see us as human, we have to risk our lives to do something big. Otherwise, we aren't even worth a bite of prison food."
Conan's hand-mark suddenly burned. Through the link, he heard a hollow voice:
"We are one, we are the swarm, we are the Great Crowd of Beasts despised by God. Assemble! In the name of the Lord, let those who call themselves gods know that even a common man turned stray dog has a will!"
More people flooded into the park from all directions. They were the debt-ridden, the bankrupt, the failures cast aside by society. They were called "trash," but by exchanging the Blood Oath, they had a new identity:
The Beasts of 666.
Their eyes were bloodshot with a desire for destruction. Criminal Mist poured from them, fueling the omen. The Swarm had assembled!
Conan slowly reached into his coat. He pulled out his phone. Gin's number was on the screen.
Inspector Megure could summon Shinichi; Conan could summon the world's strongest Saint of Slaughter. Conan felt a profound sadness that he was relying on an international crime syndicate for security.
Conan... you're an undercover mole, he thought. Don't get addicted to the Organization!
End of Chapter
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