Chapter 161: Soul Reaper and Conan Crossover (Part 2)
Conan no longer puzzled over why Ran Mouri was here, or why she had suddenly attacked him.
The current Ran had white hair and red pupils. Pitch-black lines spread across her skin like war paint, and her entire body radiated a dark, sinister aura. Her smile was frenzied and reeking of blood—a display of morbid "face-acting" so intense it was practically legendary.
One didn't need deduction; just by looking, Conan knew her state was anything but normal.
However, doubts remained.
The first doubt: How did she know who he was? Edogawa Conan was a fake name he had blurted out to the old homeless man upon waking up in this new world line. Ran should have no way of knowing it, yet she had come specifically to cut him down by name.
The second doubt: Why was she... so strong?
When Ran attacked, the scarred man and Vodka—who were standing beside Conan—weren't just decorative. Especially Vodka, who viewed Conan as "Big Brother Gin's seed," had no intention of standing by. But the moment Vodka moved to intercept, he was sent flying!
With a single, effortless roundhouse kick, the hulking brute was blasted away like a cannonball. It was only thanks to his split-second interference that Ran's blade stopped "an inch short" of Conan's neck.
The scarred man struck next, summoning his Rakshasa Stand. But under Ran's flickering blade, the Stand was instantly carved with wounds and forced into a humiliating retreat.
The "Gold Standard" of physical might, honed across uncounted eons in the first loop to reach the absolute peak, was on full display here. Even if it was only a residual shadow, its power was overwhelming.
The battle was brief and entirely one-sided. A shrill, manic killing intent erupted from Ran, pressing down so hard Conan could barely breathe.
Conan's exceptional observation skills finally kicked in. He spotted the key. In her right hand, Ran held the knife, but her left hand was tightly gripping an obsidian shard. A pitch-black, supreme evil power erupted from it, flowing continuously through her body.
"Moriarty... you really went there!"
Conan nearly ground his teeth to dust. He remembered Moriarty's vow: that His creations would hunt Conan with suicidal devotion. It was coming true.
But what rankled Conan wasn't the hunt; it was that Moriarty had laid His corrupting hands on Ran. Last time it was a random criminal; now it was her. Who would be next? Uncle Mouri? Professor Agasa? Sonoko? Would they all be turned into mad freaks and sent to kill him?
Enough was enough. Conan made a split-second decision.
Collapse, sell, slip, and flee—or rather, a strategic retreat.
As expected, Ran locked onto him. When he ran, she pursued relentlessly, completely ignoring Vodka and the scarred man.
"Conan... the ball is about to begin. Why are you running...?"
Her murderous pressure was like a thorn in his back. Conan didn't answer; he put every ounce of strength into his short legs, running so fast they blurred into afterimages.
He felt a bit bitter about how much time he'd spent running lately. Back when he was Shinichi Kudo, cases were structured and logical; the ones running were the criminals. In this new world line, cases required both brains and brawn. If your physical skills were lacking, a high IQ was useless.
Still, the frequent sprinting had granted Conan some valuable experience! He didn't run aimlessly; he moved according to criminal auras. He ran toward wherever the darkness was thickest.
"Keke... you've owed me five thousand yen for way too long. You have a 'way to die' today! With a monster attacking Beika, as long as I'm clean about it, I can frame the monster for your murder. No one will know it was me..."
Inside a convenience store warehouse, an employee—darkened by the city's surging criminal aura—held a knife over a colleague. The victim was already wounded, huddled against a wall, screaming "Yamete!"
Suddenly, Conan crawled through the window and zipped past the crime scene. As he ran by, he shouted to the killer:
"You idiot! Don't underestimate a detective's autopsy skills! Do you think a knife wound looks anything like a Kaiju attack? Whatever, good luck!"
The killer didn't even have time to process the boy's words before the warehouse wall collapsed as if struck by a bomb. A figure burst in.
"Damn! What are you—"
The killer brandished his knife, but before he could finish, a small, pale fist met his face.
"Move!"
The killer was blasted back like a projectile, slamming into the wall and becoming embedded in the masonry.
Having cleared the obstacle, Ran continued her pursuit with that unchanging, mad smile. No matter where Conan fled, she would follow.
As expected, Conan noted, his eyes sharp. Ran's combat power has skyrocketed after Moriarty's modification, but her mind is compromised. I can use this.
Ran seemed to have a dedicated Conan-tracker in her brain. Her pursuit path was an absolute straight line—drawn with a ruler. She crushed everything in her path rather than taking a single step to go around.
This gave Conan an idea. He adjusted his route so that various criminals would be the midpoint between him and Ran. Ran wouldn't take two steps to the side; she would punch right through them.
After verifying this with the unlucky convenience store killer, Conan formulated a plan.
"All you criminals currently committing crimes in Beika... lend me your strength!"
Conan acted on the thought. Using his divine ability to sense crime, he dashed toward every active crime scene, "borrowing" the strength of the perpetrators!
The plan was a massive success. As he sprinted through scenes on his short legs, the criminals were forced to become his speedbumps. The only downside was that their "strength" was borrowed quite painfully—most were left severely injured, with only a lucky few escaping with minor wounds.
Because of this, an urban legend began to spread through Beika. They said that in this city of unavenged souls, if you see a boy in glasses zip past you while you're committing a crime, don't freeze—run. Because that boy is the Messenger of the Reaper, the guide for the vengeful spirits. If you're slow, the spirits following him will beat you into a coma.
Conan didn't know he was birthing a ghost story. He was too busy being worried. The "Modified Freak" version of Ran was absurd: bottomless stamina, immeasurable strength, and unstoppable killing intent. None of the criminals he used as "strength" could last a single exchange with her.
Still, the "Gale Advance" tactic of borrowing strength worked. He had managed to put some distance between them!
Finally, Conan had a moment to look at the giant monster. To his surprise, the Japanese authorities had abandoned their usual sluggishness. Armored divisions were already entering the fray.
Conan didn't know that while the authorities covered up Beika's crime rate, they kept a hawk-like eye on the city that birthed the "Stand Progenitor" Shinichi Kudo. After Inspector Megure reported the previous incident where a criminal turned into a monster (and was killed by Gin), the government was on high alert.
The response to the 666 Kaiju was swift.
In Conan's view, the regular army should be able to stall the beast for a while.
Stall. That was the keyword. He had a gut feeling that the monster—formed from the old man and four Moriarty shards—was beyond the army's ability to "solve."
His premonition was quickly verified. Ground forces set up artillery arrays and opened fire. The commander was full of confidence. Tokusatsu Kaiju were a Japanese staple, but to a military professional, the combat scenes in those movies were kindergarten play. He believed no flesh-and-blood creature could survive a coordinated modern bombardment.
But the commander had miscalculated one thing: his "Reality" was no longer real.
The shells hit their mark. Explosions bloomed across the creature's skin. The result? Dismal. The amorphous, twisting mountain of flesh was unharmed. Angered, it lashed out with a tentacle. A single swipe created a crater ten meters wide and several meters deep; armored vehicles were flattened instantly.
The commander wavered, disbelief etched on his face.
Conan, watching from afar, understood. Though the Criminal Mist had lost its source and stopped growing, it hadn't diminished. It shrouded the monster like a shield, intercepting every shell.
The mist was a supernatural extension of a "World-Shaking Case." The criminal within it was protected and buffed by the case itself. In this world, there were many ways to solve a case: deduction, finding the truth, or beating a confession out of the culprit. But all followed "Rules."
Trying to bypass the investigation and simply erase the case (and the truth) with raw firepower? That didn't work. One had to play by the rules. The commander didn't know the rules, so his "logical" offensive broke against them.
Refusing to give up, the commander called in air support. Missiles and autocannons turned Beika into a thunderous warzone. Some wavering criminals in the city even dropped their weapons and went home after seeing the firepower.
But the result was the same. Increased yield and density could not pierce the mist.
Conan didn't care if it was scientific; his expression was grave. To him, this was the moment where the settings of the New World Line (his creation) clashed head-on with the residual settings of the Old World Line.
The result: In the New World Line, the "Case" is supreme. Violence must bow to the rules of the mystery.
Conan's brilliant mind raced. In this world, a single person who launches a "Calamity-tier" case could theoretically ignore the combined military might of all nations and annihilate human society single-handedly. If a homeless man could spark a city-wide riot, a "Civilization-Calamity" case wasn't far-fetched.
Others could comfort themselves that it wasn't their problem. Conan couldn't. He had opened this world line with his own hands. He couldn't look away.
He activated his "Transcendent Wisdom" to find a solution. The answer came quickly:
"Perhaps... besides wisdom, I need... Power!"
His heartfelt whisper was heard. A gloomy, low murmur echoed in his ear:
"Oh, my dear Holmes-boy. It's been a while. Did you miss me? If not, I swear I'll have Mrs. Hudson kick your backside. Let's skip the pleasantries. You seem to have a new resolve. That's good; a weak opponent makes for a boring game. As it happens, I've recently learned many interesting things and, using that knowledge, obtained a fine treasure. I'll let you have a free trial!"
Conan roared: "Moriarty! Show yourself so I can kill you!"
End of Chapter
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