11-15

*Chapter 11: The Art of Skipping Classes*

Karasawa pressed himself against the wall at the corner, peering slightly to observe the road in front of the Maru family’s residence.

Neat shadows lined both sides of the street, silently bowing to a palanquin carried by several of them as it passed.

In this cognitive world, "shadows" are creatures, manifestations drawn to the desires of the main figure in each "palace." Common shadows reflect certain thoughts or awareness of the palace's host, while special shadows, like those belonging to Maru Denjiro, represent distorted aspects of his personality, reflecting his true inner self and character.

In the world of detective mysteries, corrupt villains and countless victims abound. Just by utilizing the cognitive world, Karasawa figured he could manipulate things to a considerable extent.

The shadows kneeling in a line before him, along with the warriors carrying the palanquin, were likely representations of how Maru Denjiro saw others.

The lavish decorations on the palanquin gleamed brilliantly; it seemed that in the old man’s mind, he was probably something of a high-ranking feudal lord, like a shogun.

"Ugly on the outside, delusional on the inside," Karasawa muttered, shaking his head as he avoided the street. He circled the outer edge of the Maru residence, looking for gaps.

Denjiro’s shadow was certainly in that palanquin, but since Karasawa hadn’t yet awakened his own powers, he couldn’t rely on a brute-force approach. Otherwise, he would have considered kicking down the door and getting straight to work.

Speaking of which, according to the original setup, wouldn’t he need to be in some desperate situation to awaken his powers? Perhaps in a highly emotional state?

With that thought, Karasawa treaded even more lightly.

The more he considered it, the more he felt there could be traps. Based on the storyline, he would likely awaken his powers eventually; best to proceed with caution.

The Maru mansion, now resembling a grand feudal lord’s estate, featured elaborate carved beams and gilded splendor. Shadowy samurai patrolled in pairs, and it wasn’t until Karasawa reached the back of the mansion that he found a suitable spot to climb the wall into the courtyard.

As the previous patrol turned back, Karasawa stealthily approached the courtyard wall, reached up to grab the edge, and climbed up.

Not knowing how many guards were inside, he refrained from dropping into the courtyard immediately. Instead, he climbed onto a nearby rooftop, crouching as he moved along the ridge to get a better view.

It was the right move. The courtyard was open, with few places to hide, and every door had a shadow standing guard. High on the main building, there were even archer units, guarding the area with unwavering vigilance.

If he had been reckless and climbed directly into the courtyard, he’d have been caught on the spot.

"How can such a small courtyard be crammed with so many shadows? Do they think this is an RPG?" Karasawa grumbled inwardly but stuck to his stealth, moving across the rooftops toward the main building like a skilled infiltrator.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the rooftop of the main building and peeked down at the courtyard from a good angle.

Thank heavens this was Japan—at most, even a daimyo’s mansion would have two courtyards. If he had to infiltrate something like the Forbidden City, he’d be climbing until tomorrow night.

The main building was heavily guarded, with sentries at the entrance and archers on the balconies. This was likely where they kept the treasure, which in the palace would be the host’s most cherished item, the root of his desires.

“Is Maru Denjiro just that weak? It’s barely been an hour, and I’ve already located the core area.” Karasawa pondered this without realizing he’d practically bypassed the entire palace with his infiltration skills.

Well, finding it early was for the best. The world of Detective Conan wasn’t like Persona 5, where there was ample time to conquer the palace. Who knew—by tomorrow, Maru Denjiro might invite Kogoro Mouri over and get himself exposed, which would be awkward.

In that case, not having awakened his powers didn’t matter much; he wouldn’t be smashing doors anyway. All he had to do was send a notice and sneak back in the next day to steal the treasure. Mission accomplished.

Avoiding violence was even better. Kicking down doors wasn’t the mark of a true phantom thief!

It seemed that some entertainment was being prepared in front of the main building. A table and rug were laid out in the courtyard, and shadow samurai came and went with trays, arranging them on the table.

Karasawa squinted to see what was on the trays: heaps of gold and silver, stacks of bills arranged in neat triangles, mounds of gold dust and pearls—a glittering display that could dazzle the eye.

"Seems fitting for a loan shark." Karasawa thought as he scrutinized the structure of the building, mapping out his potential escape route.

Just then, the warriors below all turned toward the doorway and bowed.

Karasawa quickly ducked back, pressing himself against the side wall, watching through one eye.

Maru Denjiro had returned.

It was Karasawa’s first look at the palace host in person. Maru Denjiro, a man in his fifties, wore a luxurious Nara-style robe adorned with family crests and a formal headpiece as he swaggered in, surrounded by samurai.

He sat behind the table, toying with some jewels from the golden trays, and called out, “Where are the new servants? Bring them up.”

The samurai responded in unison, and soon a group of people in chains, stumbling and shackled, were dragged in.

These figures were not shadows; they had clear faces.

Karasawa recognized one of them as the man he’d bumped into earlier that afternoon, with a gaunt face and a distinctive mustache.

It seemed these were Maru Denjiro’s debtors.

They weren’t real people but rather cognitive representations of people Maru had loaned money to, created based on his perception of them. To Maru Denjiro, debtors were prisoners and slaves.

The chained figures were forced to kneel on the floor, while shadowy samurai with trays stood beside them, waiting for Maru Denjiro’s inspection.

Walking up to the first tray, Maru Denjiro picked up a necklace, tossing it lightly. “Is this all an old man like you can offer? Pathetic! You’re a waste of society’s resources. Cut off his hand as punishment.”

He pocketed the necklace and kicked the struggling old man aside, while a nearby warrior immediately raised a sword to sever the man’s hands.

As screams filled the courtyard, Maru Denjiro casually moved to the next person.

“An art piece? Do you think I’m blind? You don’t need those eyes!” he sneered.

“Junk! Trying to fool me? You there, behead him and place his head on the tray as collateral!”

The once-peaceful courtyard was soon transformed into a bloody scene of punishment. Some victims lay silent, while others clutched their injuries, writhing in agony—a disturbing sight.

"What a twisted hellscape… for a loan shark’s inner mind to be this brutal." Even knowing these figures were mere cognitive constructs, Karasawa couldn’t help but frown.

Judging by his wealth, Maru Denjiro was clearly prosperous. It seemed that, aside from amassing riches, he took pleasure in watching others suffer and beg before him.

“What a sick old man; no wonder he has a palace.”

“Not a single valuable possession? Are police officers all this poor?” Maru Denjiro’s voice brought Karasawa’s attention to the man before him, making his heart clench.

A tall man in a police uniform sat on the floor in chains, struggling but failing to rise. His right leg ended in an empty pant leg.

“Well, your daughter’s cute enough. I suppose I’ll take her as collateral,” Maru said, dismissing the man’s pitiful state. “After all, you’re a cripple now, so let’s do you a favor. Cut off his other leg, too.”

Karasawa clenched the roof tiles tightly, feeling a surge of anger.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 12: The Persona Mask—Twenty Faces

“Does it hurt?” The cold barrel of the gun pressed against his torn, bloodied wound. “I asked, does it hurt?”

That unforgettable voice echoed in the dim, cramped room.

“Since you’re a useless cripple anyway... I might as well take off the other leg too, right?”

The metallic tang of blood filled the air as cold moonlight spilled over the scene.

The powerless man gasped for breath, struggling and writhing like a fish out of water.

Everything melded together with the scene before his eyes.

Karasawa clenched his teeth, pain and rage resurfacing from the depths of his memory. The tile he was gripping cracked under the strain.

The alert shadows of the guards drew their swords in unison, while Marutsujirou, who had been savoring his prey's misery, turned sharply toward where Karasawa was hiding. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Karasawa stood up.

He had been crouching on one side of the roof, his back pressed against the wall to conceal himself. But now, that movement fully exposed him to the guards’ sight.

Yet Karasawa’s mind was far from the tension unfolding before him.

His vision was overrun by memories he’d tried so hard to suppress.

A cramped room, the sound of gunfire, the stabbing pain piercing his flesh again and again.

Hunger, cold, the growing, echoing sound of blood dripping on the floor...

And those sympathetic looks in the hospital room, those pity-filled eyes refusing to meet his gaze, silently repeating the same word.

“Failure.”

Thump!

A pounding heartbeat reverberated in Karasawa’s eardrums.

“Have you truly forgotten the hurt, the rejection of your future, the end... have you really forgotten?”

A childlike voice, a deep male voice, a clear female voice, echoed in his mind all at once, overlapping within Karasawa’s consciousness.

“A life controlled, broken pride, a shattered existence... haven’t you had enough? Do you still want to taste that shame?”

The pain radiated from his chest, spreading through his body. Karasawa stumbled, clutching his head, unable to stifle his scream.

“Stand up. Stand up again. Those who don’t give it their all are only swallowed by fate—”

“Argh!”

Whether from the pain or something deeper buried in his heart, Karasawa roared, his fingers touching the edge of the mask on his face.

“Yes... Make a contract with me. I am thou, thou art I—

“Take on the form that no one can ignore, dance boldly within fate!”

Karasawa gripped the mask and yanked it from his face, his hand bulging with veins from the searing pain.

A blast of invisible energy erupted from Karasawa, sending Marutsujirou's guards shielding their faces from the violent gust.

Karasawa looked up, blood covering the upper half of his face.

Blood trickled down his nose, landing on his lips. He licked the bitter-sweet drop, as azure flames engulfed his entire form.

When the flames subsided, Karasawa’s attire had transformed from his school uniform into a black ensemble, with a vibrant red scarf draped around his neck, its trailing end fluttering dramatically in the wind.

Behind him, a dark figure emerged from the flames. The figure, donning a black top hat and skeletal mask, was cloaked in a wide black cape, appearing like a silhouette against the light. Its mask, starkly white, contrasted hauntingly with its dark attire. Around it, tendrils of black mist swirled, each one bearing a mask—foxes, demons, noh masks, masks both laughing and crying, each exuding a sinister aura.

As Karasawa regained his composure, he glanced back at his Persona mask and smirked.

Why does Arsène get to look so cool, while his mask looks straight out of a Lovecraftian nightmare? It looks like it could drain sanity points!

Whatever. He’d just put on a show. And after all, he had a palace to raid.

“You’re truly a twisted sadist who revels in tormenting others for wealth and power, Maru-san.” Karasawa looked down at Marutsujirou, who was now stumbling back in fear. “If you weren’t bound by law, you’d certainly recreate this scene in reality, wouldn’t you? Utterly repulsive.”

“Who are you! Why are you here in my mansion?” Marutsujirou yelled, his face contorted in rage.

“Me? I’m the one here to send you to hell.” Karasawa spread his arms, his scarf billowing more wildly. “Letting scum like you die would be a release. You’re going to live. Live to watch yourself lose your wealth, your reputation, your status. Rot away in prison, regretting every single moment.”

Marutsujirou's shadow swore and shouted, “Get him! Kill him! Archers, fire! Fire!”

Karasawa grinned, then leaped back.

He vanished from the guards’ sight.

—

Before the fight began, Karasawa had quietly grabbed his phone and exited the cognitive world.

His lines may have sounded impressive, but he hadn’t sent out a calling card yet. Without a card, the real Marutsujirou wouldn’t have heightened security, and without that, his treasure wouldn’t appear.

Karasawa, who’d read through Persona 5 three times, knew this well.

That didn’t stop him from delivering a speech, though—making an exit like this was exhilarating.

Just as he was about to laugh, Karasawa’s gaze froze.

Damn, why was he still in his Phantom Thief outfit?!

And he’d somehow teleported to the entrance of Marutsujirou’s estate from the shopping district.

Karasawa quickly looked around, making sure no one had seen him appear out of nowhere before attempting to will his clothes back to normal.

Focusing intently, his black attire flashed and returned to the familiar blue of his school uniform.

At least it could change back. Karasawa sighed in relief.

If he couldn’t switch back, every time he left the cognitive world, he’d have to find a place to change, which would be way too inconvenient.

Relaxing slightly, Karasawa felt the full brunt of his fatigue, his whole body sore and drained.

The power of awakening his Persona, he assumed. Exhausting.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and opened the navigation app—just a regular map app—and marked Marutsujirou’s address before slowly making his way back to the café.

Along the way, Karasawa mentally reviewed his Persona information.

Unlike the protagonist’s Arsène in P5, his starting Persona was the mysterious thief from Edogawa Rampo’s novels: the Fiend with Twenty Faces.

In a way, he was both surprised and not.

The Fiend with Twenty Faces, inspired by Arsène Lupin, was a master of disguise. His name implied he could assume “twenty faces,” with each disguise taking on a unique identity. Known for stealing art, he was precise, daring, and always sent a notice to his targets before acting.

Sound familiar?

Yes, Kaitou Kid was inspired by both Twenty Faces and Arsène.

And the Fiend’s arch-nemesis was Edogawa’s classic detective, Kogoro Akechi.

In other words, the basis for Kogoro Mouri and Persona 5’s Goro Akechi.

Karasawa rubbed his temples.

What a weird little reference. It almost felt like fate!

And there was no way Marutsujirou’s palace would have a random depiction of a crippled policeman. Karasawa wasn’t the type to break down easily, but that brutal dismemberment scene struck deep, triggering his PTSD and making him henshin so suddenly. If he tried to say it wasn’t intentional, Karasawa wouldn’t believe it.

Rion, you’ve got some explaining to do!

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 13: “The Phantom Thieves of Hearts”*

“Ugh, so tired—”

Karasawa yawned, staring into the mirror.

He felt utterly drained, but still had to sneak back to the café and secretly cut up newspapers to make warning letters. Then he had to figure out how to deliver them without letting Amuro Tooru catch on. If Amuro found out, his cover would be blown the moment the news broke, and his budding operation would be over before it even started.

So when the café finally closed for the night, Karasawa watched Amuro leave with a rare, satisfied smile. Knowing someone else was even more exhausted than he was somehow made him feel better.

In the mirror, Karasawa saw a boy in a short double-breasted tailcoat, knee-length shorts, and a scarf floating behind him, defying gravity with an oddly surreal, out-of-season beauty.

The most ridiculous part, however, was the mask.

“Is this supposed to be a mask?” Karasawa leaned closer to the mirror, tugging at it. “This is more like an eye cover!”

A flat, semi-circular mask covered the upper half of his face without leaving any openings for his eyes.

What kind of cosplay was this?

Whatever the technology, it somehow allowed him to see just fine while still looking like a seamless blindfold from the outside, as though his eyes were tied shut with fabric.

After examining the mask and watching his scarf float lightly in the air, Karasawa finally deactivated his phantom thief mode.

Now he had a whole new outfit he could instantly change into. The ability to appear in the real world in his thief attire and have his eyes covered? It was basically a new disguise.

All good things, definitely.

Crossing his hands over his chest, Karasawa lay down and fell asleep in a peaceful position.

Now there was only one thing left to do: interrogate Leon mercilessly in his dreams!

---

While Karasawa enjoyed his dream world, many others found themselves unable to sleep.

On the street outside the Maru residence, passersby were murmuring in hushed voices.

The bad-tempered head of the Maru family kept the neighbors at bay; no one dared to gather too close. But the walls of the estate were plastered with posters, and the street littered with cards, all too conspicuous to ignore.

Soft chanting filled the air.

"‘The despicable scoundrel of greed, Maru Tetsujiro,’” a woman passing the alley read aloud, her eyes fixed on the poster.

“You use your wealth to torment the suffering, trampling their dignity, grinding their treasures and life’s work into dust. We know every bit of your shameful behavior,” whispered an office worker, holding a card up to the streetlight to read the words.

“Tomorrow, we will make you answer for your crimes,” a trembling servant read out loud from a card, word by word. “Your twisted desires are ours to claim. Sincerely, the Phantom Thieves of Hearts.”

“Bang!” Maru Tetsujiro slammed his fist onto the table, tea spilling everywhere.

“Who did this?!” Though past his prime, Tetsujiro’s voice boomed with anger. “Rip down every last piece of this trash, and make sure it's shredded and gone!”

“We don’t know, sir,” replied the servant, eyes downcast, afraid to meet his master’s furious gaze. “The walls are covered, and the streets are full of them; the entire neighborhood is littered…”

“What about the security cameras? And the guards outside?!”

“The cameras only picked up a few children sticking the papers on the doors. They said they just found them on the street…”

Tetsujiro’s face darkened as he snatched a handful of the paper scraps from the servant’s hand, crumpling them and throwing them at him. “Worthless! Now get out there and clean it all up!”

“Yes, sir!” The servant ran out in a hurry.

Maru Tetsujiro sat back down, his breathing heavy as he glared at the discarded paper scattered on the floor. Across the table, his wife, Maru Inako, held her teacup to her lips to hide her smile, watching his outrage with icy satisfaction.

She knew, in her own way, about the shady dealings her husband was involved in.

Where was the lie in any of this?

Their business was booming; they certainly weren’t in need of any petty cash. And yet Tetsujiro still insisted on resorting to dirty tricks, as if the illicit gains somehow gave him more satisfaction.

“Come now, dear, perhaps it’s just someone jealous of our success, trying to ruin your reputation?” She wore a feigned smile. “It’s nothing but arrogant nonsense. No need to get so worked up.”

Tetsujiro gave her an angry look. “What do you know? Rumors like these could ruin our business! Never mind, I don’t know why I even bother talking to you.”

Lately, he’d become suspicious of her movements, convinced she had a lover on the side and had even hired a detective to investigate. Her smiles annoyed him to no end.

Wasting no more time, Tetsujiro headed for his collection room.

He didn’t care about vague threats like “answer for your crimes.” He figured the “Phantom Thieves” were probably eyeing his collection.

Tetsujiro had no qualms about displaying his collection proudly. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t just a successful businessman; he was a renowned collector.

Could it be some lowlife, desperate for money, plotting to steal from him?

Tetsujiro’s mind swirled with suspicion.

Unbeknownst to him, a shadowed version of Tetsujiro in regal attire glared menacingly in an alternate realm. Reaching for a katana on the wall, he drew the gleaming blade.

“Damn thieves. Dare to covet my treasures? I’ll make sure you have no return!”

---

“Our target has no formal training background.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ve reviewed the past decade of his life. In middle and high school, there’s no record of long absences, and his lifestyle matches that of an ordinary student.”

On the top floor of an apartment across from the café, Shuichi Akai, who had rented the room, listened to his colleague’s update over the phone, frowning.

“If he could shake off surveillance that quickly, he’s no ordinary kid.”

Akai looked down at several photos spread out before him, showing Karasawa caught mid-motion after bumping into someone on the shopping street that afternoon.

In the photos, Karasawa appeared shocked, fists raised defensively, then reaching out to steady the other person.

“You can see it in these photos. His defensive reaction was instinctive. Hand and foot movements were rapid and coordinated; he has a solid base in boxing or martial arts.”

If Amuro Tooru were to see these pictures, he’d feel a strange sense of familiarity.

It was exactly Amuro Tooru’s own fighting style.

“No gaps in his records post-middle school, but what about before that?” Akai pondered aloud.

“Shu, the target would have been just eleven or twelve…”

“Don’t forget, he’s the Karasawa couple’s child.” Switching his phone to his other ear, Akai lit a cigarette, then held a photo over the ashtray, setting it alight as he spoke. “When he was eleven or twelve, he was still under their care.”

After a long pause, the voice on the other end asked hesitantly, “Would the Karasawas really experiment on their own son?”

“It wasn’t an experiment,” Akai replied, taking a drag from his cigarette and looking down at the dark street across the way. “The Karasawas started their research for Karasawa Sho.”

“If there’s any result that best reflects their research, that result would be Karasawa Sho himself.”

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 14: Sodium Metaaluminate*

“Good morning, Karasawa-kun. Is that a new outfit?” Azusa Enomoto looked up from wiping the bar counter, spotting Karasawa descending the stairs in a stylish British-style trench coat and greeting him with a smile.

“Yes, good morning, Ms. Enomoto.” Feeling excellent in his familiar style, Karasawa greeted her back, picking up a cloth to help wipe down tables.

Karasawa was so focused on his task that he didn’t notice Azusa stifling a laugh.

Though Karasawa’s outfit would typically befit a man in his thirties, on his youthful eighteen-year-old face, it only made him look even younger.

Maybe he dressed like an adult because his face looked cute? Azusa adjusted her mental image of Karasawa, now leaning toward seeing him as an adorable child, and couldn’t help but offer praise with a grin, “Very tasteful, Karasawa-kun.”

Unaware, Karasawa cheerfully helped open the store, hanging the “open” sign.

Naturally, he wasn’t going to school today.

Three days into transferring to Teitan High, with two days off—no complaints. Karasawa was very supportive of the holiday schedule in the Detective Conan world.

After prepping his equipment and saying his goodbyes to Azusa, he set out toward Marutsunjiro’s mansion.

Marutsunjiro was likely on edge due to the warning letter last night. His residence was probably sealed tight by now.

But the sword of the Detective Conan world can’t sever the officials of P5.

Navigating the alleyways, Karasawa tapped buttons on his phone as he rounded a corner.

In a single step, he entered the desolate streets of the Metaverse, his figure vanishing into the shadows.

Seconds later, a figure pursuing him reached the same corner.

Seeing the empty alley, Shuichi Akai raised an eyebrow without much surprise.

Karasawa truly had anti-tracking skills, Akai confirmed once again.

The click of a gun chambering a round.

Akai quickly sidestepped as bullets shot by, glancing into the alley behind him.

Tooru Amuro, holding his shiny silver HK P7M8, aimed at him with malicious intent.

“Rye, what are you doing here?”

—

Karasawa had no idea the two followers tailing him had run into each other as he made his way to Marutsunjiro’s residence in his Phantom Thief form, sprinting gleefully.

With the main area on high alert, eerie, red-eyed shadows patrolled in sinister crimson beams of light. Marutsunjiro’s shadow no longer paraded through the streets; Maru’s residence was tightly shut.

A seasoned gamer, Karasawa wasn’t fazed; he almost felt the lack of background music made it less thrilling.

The mansion’s layout wouldn’t change due to the owner’s vigilance, so his entry route remained viable. If the increased patrols discovered him...

Then he’d eliminate any shadows that found him!

As a veteran gamer, Karasawa knew: if no one sees you, it’s still considered stealth.

He vaulted walls, climbed roofs, leaped, and snuck around with seamless skill.

Perhaps his post-awakening enhancements were kicking in. In the Metaverse, his untrained teenage body moved with agility, lightness, and power.

Even with double the security in the courtyard, Karasawa slipped past the red beams and crept into the inner yard with ease.

Surrounded by samurai shadows, the main building looked shrouded in a red mist. Clad in the armor of a general, Marutsunjiro held a katana, scanning the yard with a menacing gaze.

What a grim vibe.

Karasawa leaned down from the eaves, reaching for the mask on his face.

Then, he jumped.

In midair, Karasawa’s mask ignited in flames, and a ferocious Twenty Faces persona emerged from behind him.

Stealth? What stealth?

Karasawa smirked, glancing at the well-stocked skill menu of Twenty Faces, and grinned provocatively at the snarling Marutsunjiro.

Didn’t he understand the golden power of a New Game+?

Last night, he hadn’t just hammered Leon. He’d gone through his persona compendium, filled with carefully curated skills, and used his ¥90 million stash to high-speed fuse personas.

And just like that, he had Twenty Faces, a skill-packed persona with all the attributes.

“Come on, scum,” Karasawa taunted, drawing a short knife across his chest. “Let’s see what kind of garbage attribute you are.”

His contemptuous tone enraged Marutsunjiro, who stepped forward, roaring as his samurai guards surrounded him.

“You sneaky brat! I’ll hack off your limbs and your head and hang them out front to dry, so you’ll understand the price of angering a noble!”

Finishing his long-winded line, Marutsunjiro’s armored form exploded, cracking into the ground, revealing his twisted true form.

Weapons of all shapes and sizes encased his armor like ribs, with a massive sword protruding from his back, plunging into the ground.

Symbols of strength and power—golden seals, helmets—hovered around this blade-covered creature like trophies on a spider’s web.

“Ew, a spider. That’s gross.” Karasawa grimaced, taking a fighting stance as Twenty Faces let out a raspy laugh, unfurling tendrils of inky mist. “Such a verbose villain without any dignity. Let’s go, Twenty Faces! Persona—!”

—

“What? The meeting is canceled?” Kogoro Mouri glanced at the calendar, baffled. “Didn’t Mr. Maru say he could only meet today?”

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Mouri.” The voice of Marutsunjiro’s secretary chuckled wryly on the other end. “Last night, Mr. Maru received numerous threat letters after dinner. He’s too tense today and canceled all appointments.”

“Threat letters?” Kogoro Mouri’s irritation turned to seriousness. “Did they include any personal threats?”

“Well... that’s hard to define…” the secretary hesitated. “Some think it’s a prank; others suspect it’s a diversion from a competitor…”

“Can you share more details?” Kogoro Mouri straightened, sensing a case. “Threats aren’t to be taken lightly.”

The sound of letters flying around made it hard to ignore. The secretary considered before speaking up. “Can you receive faxes? I’ll send you the threat letter. If you could help us identify the troublemaker, we’d be very grateful.”

Ears perked at the word “threat letter,” Conan inched closer to Mouri’s desk, peering up to catch the conversation.

With an exasperated flick, Mouri knocked Conan’s head, while the fax machine started churning out papers.

“What’s this? A warning note?” Mouri frowned as he looked over the faxed paper, a message cobbled together from newspaper clippings.

“The ‘Phantom Thieves of Hearts’…” Conan read the final line along with Mouri as he peered over.

What a cringey note, Conan thought, though he instinctively memorized the bizarre signature.

Note: Writing this part was a bit rushed to keep things moving, I admit. Not a major case here, so let's fast-forward the action as much as we can. Thanks for reading and supporting! (bows)

*Chapter 15: A Bizarre Mishap*

Panting as he straightened himself, Karasawa wiped the blood off his cheek and let out a hiss.

The monstrous, wailing giant spider dissolved into a mess of scattered blades, and the disheveled Maruyama Tsujirou lay crumpled on the ground, begging for mercy.

“Out of my way, you low-class scum.” Karasawa nudged the whimpering figure aside with his toe, then strode toward the room behind him.

“No! Don’t take it!” Maruyama’s shadowy figure clutched Karasawa’s ankle, sobbing and pleading. “Take anything—treasure, money—but please, leave it!”

Karasawa crouched down, smiling as he tapped Maruyama’s cheek with his dirt-stained dagger. “This expression—this suffering—can you finally feel the weight of the sins you imposed on others? Keep crying; louder.”

With a final kick to free himself, Karasawa stepped over Maruyama’s hand and headed into the main room.

Inside was a well-crafted wooden cabinet, one that stirred an oddly familiar feeling in Karasawa.

Could this be the cabinet Maruyama used to carve his ominous messages, just like in the manga...?

It felt like a fated twist, in a way. Amusing.

Karasawa reached up to the cabinet top and took down a glimmering object.

It was a folding fan with a gold-leafed surface, adorned with intricate mother-of-pearl inlay on the handle. The fan bore a striking gold character for “Maru.”

On the reverse side, there was an illustration of a warrior striking down a demon with his blade.

“Interesting.” Karasawa inspected the painting closely, feeling a strange sense of melancholy that was hard to explain.

A collector of demonic-slaying blades had, ironically, become a demon himself. If Karasawa hadn’t intervened, the man would have met his end by the warrior’s hand.

Tucking the fan away, Karasawa pressed its handle to Maruyama’s forehead.

“Remember this pain of having a precious treasure taken,” he said, smirking at Maruyama’s tear-streaked face. “Reflect on your actions, Mr. Maruyama.”

The now frail Maruyama stared blankly at the fan in Karasawa’s hand, then sighed, bowing his head.

His shadow faded into a beam of light. Karasawa tucked the fan into his waistband, then dashed forward just in time to avoid the collapsing doors and windows behind him.

With its master’s warped desires gone, the hall was now crumbling.

“Hm, I did take some damage. Wonder if my healing skills can help.” Racing against the building’s collapse, Karasawa muttered to himself, “A single mask doesn’t give much protection. After all, I’m fighting solo here, and who knows if I’ll have any teammates in the future...”

More training was necessary, Karasawa concluded as he narrowly escaped Maruyama’s compound. He promised himself, At least in the Metaverse, I need a better way to get around.

You may look cool when fighting, but your escape is a mess!

---

After the quick and intense heist, Karasawa returned to Café Poirot well before lunchtime.

Through trial and error, he had confirmed that healing skills could restore his physical state, but only in the Metaverse. If he didn’t fully heal before leaving, he’d carry his injuries back to reality.

Luckily, most of his injuries were on his torso, with only a small cut visible on his face—nothing to raise suspicion.

Karasawa buttoned his inner shirt up to the top to hide the bruises on his chest, then entered the café.

Inside, Amuro Toru was washing dishes with an unusually stern expression, his scrubbing movements practically radiating hostility.

“Mr. Amuro?” Karasawa quietly reminded him, “That plate is already clean.”

Amuro paused, glanced at the gleaming dish in his hand, clicked his tongue, and placed it on the rack.

“Bad mood? What happened?” Karasawa asked, taking a seat at the counter.

If this were a manga, Karasawa’s current look would be complete with ominous lines and dark aura radiating off him.

Amuro, however, responded with a question. “Where were you this morning?”

Karasawa laughed nervously. “Oh, just out for a walk. Why the sudden interest?”

Oh no, has something gone wrong? Could he have already blown his cover on his very first heist?

“You haven’t run into any trouble these past few days?” Amuro’s piercing gaze scanned Karasawa like an X-ray. “No strange encounters?”

Trouble… did Suwa Yuji, who was on the brink of murder, count? Or the gangsters he’d hired to distribute shady cards?

For a moment, Karasawa couldn’t tell if Amuro had caught on to something or was referring to something else, so he hesitated to reply.

Suddenly, Amuro stepped closer, grabbing Karasawa’s face.

“Hey, that hurts—” The scrape on Karasawa’s face, not fully healed, throbbed like a needle prick, and he quickly backed away from Amuro’s grip.

Amuro’s frustration at the sight of the underage ward’s injury was evident. “How did you get this? You realize you’re being followed, don’t you?”

Karasawa blinked, gauging Amuro’s reaction, and spoke carefully. “It’s just a scratch… nothing serious…”

Not buying it, Amuro reached over, pulling at the tightly buttoned collar of Karasawa’s shirt. “Stop hiding it. When you left this morning, you weren’t buttoned up like this.”

Wait, hold on. “This morning? But Mr. Amuro, you weren’t on shift yet when I left. How did you know how I was dressed?”

“I came in just as you left, and I saw someone sneaking after you, looking suspicious. So I followed to see what they were up to,” Amuro explained without hesitation, twisting the sequence of events to paint himself as a concerned guardian. “But then I noticed you seemed aware and shook him off.”

Karasawa blinked twice.

Huh? Someone was following me? And I managed to lose them?

Could it be that Amuro was tailing me, someone else was tailing me too, and I evaded them both by slipping into the Metaverse, leaving the two stalkers to cross paths?

Karasawa sighed, relieved.

Not about the Phantom Thieves? Thank goodness.

Karasawa followed Amuro’s line of thought and said, “It’s true I’ve been tailed for a couple of days now. Maybe it started when I got to Tokyo. I have no idea who they’re with.”

He put on a serious expression and skillfully redirected the blame.

At this point, the reasons for someone following were almost endless—powerful figures framing him, reprisal from higher-ups, organizations wanting him out of the picture.

Not knowing the identity of the stalker was actually convenient. Better them than the Phantom Thieves.