"I know you're curious, but for now, restrain that curiosity."
On the narrow path leading toward the park, Yang Tao, a master of needless verbosity, spoke suddenly, leaving Conan—unfamiliar with the peculiar rhetoric of mainland internet culture—momentarily at a loss for words.
"I don't actually know the true name of the Black Organization."
"You… what—"
Conan's eyes widened in shock, but before he could finish, Yang Tao cut him off.
"Relax, I can't read minds. While I don't know their real designation, you may as well call them the Distillery."
"Why…?"
"Because everyone within their ranks bears the name of a liquor. That tall, lean man who knocked you unconscious and forced some unknown liquid down your throat? He's called Gin. The one with him—Vodka."
"You…"
"As for why I know this—that remains my secret. Rest assured, though, I am not one of them."
Not a mind reader? Then what are you?
Conan, repeatedly silenced, chose to swallow his questions. The man before him was far too enigmatic. Yet scarcely had he formed that thought before Yang Tao, smiling faintly, spoke again:
"Conan, don't you have anything you'd like to ask me?"
"…"
Were it not for his diminutive body, Conan would have tackled him out of sheer exasperation. It had been years since he'd last felt so utterly maddened.
"Who exactly are you? And what was that strange place?"
As they rounded a bend, the park came into view—lush trees casting dense shadows in the moonless night.
"All you need to know is that my name is Yang Tao. I harbor no great malice toward you. Beyond that, nothing else matters."
Discussing Minecraft or the Backrooms with Conan? Hardly.
But Conan only grew more bewildered at the explanation.
Malice was either present or absent—what did "not too much malice" even mean?
Within the park, Yang Tao stopped before a towering oak, resting his hand upon its rough bark.
"This should suffice…"
Clutching his soccer ball, Conan asked warily, "What are you planning to do?"
"Why, chop it down, of course."
With that, a pixelated stone axe materialized in his grip. Conan staggered back in astonishment as Yang Tao swung, each strike ringing dully in the silent night.
Conan's worldview shattered as he watched jagged cracks—blocky and unreal—spread across the tree's trunk.
"This… this defies science…"
"It's stubborn work," Yang Tao muttered. After a dozen strikes, only a third of the trunk had fractured.
Thunk… thunk… thunk…
Crack—
With a muffled report, the massive tree burst apart, disintegrating into cube-shaped blocks that fell, then vanished into Yang Tao's body.
"It works."
His expression brightened as he glanced into his inventory at the newly acquired [Oak Logs]. Wood was no longer a concern.
He stooped to collect an [Oak Sapling] and an [Apple], speculating inwardly: So real-world trees convert directly into Minecraft resources the instant they fall… Interesting. If that's true, then coal might be bought as well.
Resources were scarce; every bit mattered.
His gaze flicked briefly to a translucent display:
[Detective Conan World Exploration Progress: 10.013%]
By contrast, his exploration of the Backrooms had barely shifted. The sudden leap here—triggered by direct contact with Conan—made sense only if progress were tied to narrative protagonists.
If that's the case… what if I strolled through a cemetery? Plenty of corpses here. Would cremated remains still count?
Shaking off the darker thought, Yang Tao turned, smiling slyly.
"Hey, brat, keep your mouth shut for a moment."
"How did you do that?"
"Chop the tree?"
"How did such a massive trunk vanish? And that bizarre axe—what was it?"
Yang Tao merely countered with a question: "How do you breathe?"
Conan blinked, wrong-footed. "How…? Inhale, exhale…"
"Precisely. What bewilders you is as natural to me as breathing. I swing an axe, the tree fractures—what you saw was nothing extraordinary."
Stowing the stone axe, Yang Tao withdrew an [Apple] from his inventory, offering it with courteous ease.
"Thank you for leading me here. Consider this a gift."
Conan studied the apple—so flawless it seemed unreal—before accepting it.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'll be off for now. I'll find you again tomorrow."
At his whispered command, Open Door, a wooden portal appeared at his side. Pausing, Yang Tao produced Conan's [Tranquilizer Watch], tossing it back to him.
"Be careful on your way home. After all, you are still just a child. Goodbye."
With a casual wave, he stepped through the door and vanished.
Conan stood clutching the watch, eyes locked on the space where Yang Tao had disappeared, disbelief etched across his face.
"Yang Tao… just what are you?"
Back in the Overworld, Eric's steady snores filled the air. Ignoring them, Yang Tao moved to the [Crafting Table], breaking down the oak logs into planks.
"A shield first… then a few signs. Best to prepare early—if doors begin appearing everywhere, I'll need markers."
Signs—mere decorations in Minecraft—were invaluable for labeling chests and organizing supplies.
Glancing again at the exploration meter, he mused: What happens when it reaches one hundred percent?
Completionist instincts burned within him. Even if there were no reward, he would force it to full. Stuck at ninety-nine, he might go mad.
After a swift inventory check, Yang Tao stepped toward the wooden door leading into Level 1.
He needed more energy, more iron—more monsters.