Karasawa scanned the bustling streets of Beika Shopping District and snapped a photo with his phone.
A well-known location, for sure. Yet this quiet avenue probably had no idea what fate had in store for it.
Then again, he lived above Café Poirot. He wasn't exactly in a position to laugh at anyone else's cursed feng shui.
With a sigh, Karasawa wandered into a random clothing store.
He did actually need new clothes. The weather here followed the same twisted logic as the plot—unpredictable at best. Better to stock up on versatile basics.
Sure, his inventory had outfits. But they were all stat-boosting gear, not exactly casual wear. And they didn't match his usual vibe.
He wasn't really a high schooler, after all. His tastes skewed toward semi-formal—muted trench coats in khaki or charcoal, clean layers of black, white, and grey.
It's just… his babyface wasn't helping. No matter what he wore, he looked like a kid playing dress-up in a noir flick.
After speedrunning his shopping quest, Karasawa headed toward the newspaper stand. He wanted to skim the latest headlines, check if Shinichi Kudo had cracked any cases recently, maybe even "accidentally" cross paths with the pint-sized Reaper himself.
But then someone suddenly toppled toward him from inside a nearby antique shop.
Karasawa's reflexes kicked in instantly. He recoiled a step, snapped into a tight boxing stance—only to realize it wasn't an attack, just a middle-aged man being shoved out the door.
"Careful," he said, catching the man before he could slam into the sidewalk.
"Didn't I tell you to quit bothering us?!" bellowed the chubby shop owner behind him, arms akimbo and face red with rage. "The buyer's already confirmed for the blade! I'm not saying it again!"
"But our agreement hasn't even hit the collateral deadline yet!" The gaunt-faced man had a thin moustache and a raw voice, flushed with frustration. "You have no right to sell 'Kikuchiyo' yet! That's a breach of contract!"
"You pawned it to Marutsugu Jiro, not me! Why should I care?" The owner was louder, meaner. "Step foot in here again and I'll call the cops!"
And with that, he spun around and slammed the door behind him.
The man Karasawa had caught was practically vibrating with fury, his fists clenched, chest heaving like a shaken soda bottle.
Once he straightened up, Karasawa quietly let go.
Noticing the teenager's curious look, the man managed a tight, brittle smile and muttered his thanks before stalking off toward the corner.
Karasawa watched his hunched back and clenched fists disappear into the crowd, an invisible storm brewing around him.
"…Marutsugu Jiro," Karasawa murmured, tapping his chin with forefinger and thumb, striking his most classic "detective in deep thought" pose. "That name rings a bell. Was he a victim… or a killer?"
Before he could follow the memory thread further, his phone buzzed twice in his pocket.
Weird. He'd left it on ringtone, not vibrate.
Frowning, Karasawa pulled it out—and immediately froze.
Dead center on his home screen, the red-and-black Metaverse Navigation App was glowing, a window floating above it.
[Target: Marutsugu Jiro]
A Palace? Marutsugu Jiro had a Palace?
No way. He needed to move—fast. If the input was valid and he got Isekai'd right here in the middle of a shopping district, that'd be real awkward.
Karasawa looked around, confirmed nobody was paying attention, and ducked into a narrow alleyway between two shops.
The Metaverse Navigator, as its name implied, let you cross into the otherworld—a twisted mirror of reality shaped by warped desires.
According to P5's metaphysics, when someone harbored a delusion powerful enough to skew perception, their subconscious would isolate itself from the collective unconscious and manifest as a Palace—a corrupted cognitive stronghold.
But you couldn't just enter the Metaverse willy-nilly. You had to feed the app the right coordinates:
The target's name
The location they've distorted
And how they perceive that location
Karasawa had already triggered the first step, which meant Marutsugu Jiro had a Palace.
Time to play a little memory game.
Based on that blow-up outside the store, he quickly pieced together the scene: the man with the mustache was probably Suwa Yuji, a kendo instructor whose heirloom blade "Kikuchiyo" had been pawned and then sold off prematurely by Marutsugu.
If Karasawa remembered right, Marutsugu was your classic Conanverse red flag: corporate president, private usurer, and walking lawsuit.
And when Suwa found out his precious sword had been sold? He snapped. Literally. Stabbed Marutsugu straight through the back in a blind rage.
But as always in Conan, the method of dying was somehow less ridiculous than the dying message.
Despite being fatally stabbed, Marutsugu supposedly managed to carve the killer's name into a full-height cabinet with the very blade in his gut.
Man had enough strength to carve wood but not fight back or crawl to safety. Peak Conan logic.
If Karasawa was right, the killer had already been set in motion. With Mouri Kogoro's eventual arrival and the Grim Reaper aura of a certain elementary schooler, Marutsugu's days were seriously numbered.
He typed in the next input.
[Location: Marutsugu residence]
No error.
Confirmed.
Just one step left: How did Marutsugu Jiro perceive his own home?
Karasawa started guessing—bank, vault, safehouse. All duds.
Tried club, lounge, bar. Still no match.
"Tch… blind guessing sucks," he muttered. Think, think…
Marutsugu was rich. Really rich. The guy lived in a traditional Japanese-style mansion with a full courtyard and a fleet of servants.
Maybe… something feudal?
He tapped out a new word.
[Perception: Daimyo estate]
As he hit the last character, the phone's speaker clicked on, a smooth female voice intoning:
"Location confirmed. Navigation initializing."
His vision rippled—almost imperceptibly—and the world around him fell utterly silent.
He peeked out of the alley.
The once-crowded shopping street was now deserted, unnaturally still.
Karasawa grinned, emerging with a stretch.
"Well, well, well. A loan shark who thinks he's a feudal lord. Marutsugu Jiro, you arrogant ass."
With the route now displayed on the screen, he casually strolled off toward the target location.
Unbeknownst to him, one hundred meters away, from atop a nearby building, Akai Shuichi narrowed his eyes at the now-empty alley.
A seasoned sniper's instincts told him one thing: there was no one there. No heat, no shadow—nothing.
[Target has left visual range. Any ground units still in position nearby?]
[All units have lost sight as well. High probability the target noticed surveillance; tailing teams may have been exposed.]
[Withdraw all assets. If he's on to us, further pursuit is pointless. I'll take over remote observation.]
Akai's brow furrowed.
How the hell had Karasawa Akira—an unarmed teenager—vanished completely in under three minutes?
Even he hadn't seen it happen.