Kaito Kuroba was going crazy.
He doubted himself, he doubted his life, and he was being driven to the brink of insanity by the Metropolitan Police Department's incredibly relentless pursuit.
He had always believed he was a chivalrous thief. Inheriting his missing father's title as the Phantom Thief Kid, Kaito considered himself a grand illusionist putting on dazzling shows under the moonlight.
The Metropolitan Police Department? High school detectives like Shinichi Kudo? They used to be just a bunch of bumbling clowns serving as his audience. But now, judging from the horrific results of his recent heists, it seemed he was the clown…
With the amber Kirin Horn clutched safely in his briefcase, Kaito never let it out of his sight, nor did he dare show it to anyone. He had figured out the Metropolitan Police Department's new pattern for tracking targets.
As long as he held the Kirin Horn, the MPD was like a swarm of headless flies. But the moment he put it away in a vault, they were like bloodhounds sniffing right at his heels…
What is the reason? Did the Kirin Horn have some strange, magnetic property that interfered with a highly classified, military-grade electronic tracking device used by the police? That must be it. This assumption made Kaito feel extremely troubled. Because of this relentless pressure and fear of detection, the Phantom Thief Kid hadn't appeared in public for a long time.
The absolute massacre at Myouou-ji Temple, and the indirect implication of his childhood friend Aoko Nakamori's father—who had temporarily lost his official police rank over the disaster—left a lasting nightmare in Kaito's heart.
What kind of chivalrous thief am I? Kaito thought, his stomach twisting. An illusionist responsible for leading a monster to kill so many innocent tourists? I'm even more despicable than the most vicious murderers…
Returning home alone, Kaito's spirit was worn down by his crushing guilt. With his head drooping, he suddenly noticed an unfamiliar, crisp note slipped under his entryway door.
Daikanyama No. 72.
His eyes sharpened instantly. He quickly snatched the note from the floor, clutching it tightly in his palm.
Would anyone slip such a strange, specific meeting location to an ordinary high school student? Highly unlikely.
Which meant… his secret identity was completely exposed.
...
Spencer rose early.
Seeing the reassuring, familiar faces of his British colleagues at the embassy, he smiled sincerely. The terror of the previous night felt like a distant, absurd nightmare.
He immediately sent an embassy aide to "negotiate" with the local Japanese ward office to have the offending utility pole on the street demolished. He also threw his twisted silver cross down a storm drain.
Over the next few days, Spencer probed Prime Minister Atsuomi Ayanokoji several times through diplomatic backchannels. But Ayanokoji didn't seem to show any unusual reactions. He genuinely just wanted Spencer to blindly funnel British intelligence funds into his black-budget businesses.
He doesn't know about the coded letter…
Spencer effectively ruled out Ayanokoji as the source and became increasingly interested in the meeting location: Daikanyama No. 72.
He wasn't afraid of a hidden faction eyeing Great Britain's wealth. Where there are people, there are interests. Where there are interests, there are opportunities for leverage.
For several days in a row, Spencer remained completely inactive. He was a veteran diplomat; he was very patient. Since the other party had extended such a warm, cryptic invitation, he wouldn't mind making them wait a few more days to assert dominance.
However, while Spencer had patience, someone else had completely exhausted theirs over those same few days.
At the Sawamura residence, Sayuri Sawamura silently put down her phone.
She was incredibly clever. Behind her stood a powerful, traditional Japanese family, so the subtle political movements currently shaking Tokyo didn't escape her notice.
Her husband, Spencer, seemed perfectly normal on the surface. But years of aristocratic family influence had instilled in Sayuri a sharp intuition for danger. Logically speaking, a high-ranking British diplomat stationed at the embassy shouldn't be in any trouble. But… Sayuri's feelings were a jumbled, anxious mess.
Spencer was probably planning something massive. Something that would greatly benefit Britain, but deeply harm Japan.
Where does that leave the Sawamura family?
Perhaps Spencer would be fine; he had diplomatic immunity. But the Sawamuras were in a completely different situation. If something serious happened and Spencer fled back to Britain as his fallback, what about them? Sayuri and her daughter, Eriri, would be devoured alive by enraged Japanese politicians.
Sayuri wasn't a criminal mastermind. Her ability to sense the approaching disaster stemmed from noticing seemingly unrelated, terrifying details. The domestic forces moving in the shadows—specifically the Metropolitan Police Department suddenly acting like a militarized, untouchable Inquisition—were enough to send chills down Sayuri's spine.
What exactly are they trying to do...?
With the police acting so ruthlessly, what exactly is my husband plotting by getting involved with them...?
.....
Spencer straightened his suit and adjusted his tie. In the rearview mirror, a smartly dressed, untouchable elite figure emerged.
Taking advantage of the crisp autumn weather, Spencer drove leisurely through the streets of Tokyo, treating the drive almost like a geographical survey. He finally parked his car in Daikanyama.
Daikanyama was a quiet, secluded district that avoided the dense crowds of central Tokyo. It featured both upscale residential estates and hidden, impoverished communities pushed to the fringes. Like many "high-class" Western intelligence operatives, Spencer first went to the impoverished areas to gather ground-level observations. The invisible people of a city always saw the most.
In an abandoned park, three elderly homeless people huddled around a small trash-can fire caught Spencer's eye. He approached them, greeting them warmly with a friendly, simple smile.
"Hello, my friends. I'm a tourist from England. I'd like to learn a bit about your local customs and history. May I ask you some questions? Don't worry, it won't involve your privacy."
He pulled a few crisp, low-denomination banknotes from his wallet. For a diplomat, it was pocket change. For the homeless, it was a rare feast.
"Ask away," an elderly woman muttered noncommittally. She had a deeply lined face, cloudy eyes, and a melancholy, weathered voice. She didn't look up, simply poking at the fire with a stick.
Spencer didn't mind her inattentiveness. He pulled out a small notebook and a silver pen, adopting the persona of an eager tourist. "Do you have any long-standing urban legends or ghost stories specific to this area?"
"Yes. And they're quite famous locally. They've even inspired a few horror movies, or so it's said." The old woman's voice grew even deeper, carrying a raspy, ominous weight.
Under the bright autumn sky, the warmth of the sun suddenly didn't seem very noticeable.
"Legend has it that long, long ago, before the modern skyscrapers were built, the local inhabitants of Daikanyama were just a group of illiterate villagers," she began. "They lived a simple life of farming and weaving. They were not wealthy, but their lives were harmonious."
"But at some point, a group of foreign missionaries appeared in the village. They claimed to preach Christianity. However, the villagers were busy surviving, and the locals already had their own Shinto and Buddhist beliefs, so they weren't interested in this new Western doctrine."
"Therefore, to draw a crowd, the missionaries brought out wooden marionettes. They won the villagers' favor by putting on elaborate, lifelike puppet shows in the town square. It was great entertainment. However, despite the joy the puppets brought, no one converted to Christianity or worshipped their foreign God."
"So, the missionaries gave up and abandoned the village, leaving the wooden puppets behind as a memento. But before leaving, the head missionary said something cryptic to the village elder."
"What did they say?" Spencer's interest was piqued.
"Seven days."
Seven days? "Yes, seven days," the old woman repeated, staring blankly into the fire. "At the time, no one cared what those 'seven days' meant. They just took the puppets and went back to their lives. But exactly seven days later... the entire village perished. Every single man, woman, and child was slaughtered."
Spencer paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He thought the story was a passable, generic folktale. The moral was aggressively simple: Unbelievers should be punished; heretics go to hell. It was just expressed in a rather crude, violent way.
"Is there a sequel to this story?" Spencer asked, humoring her.
The old woman finally looked up, her cloudy eyes fixing on his blue ones in surprise. "Didn't you see the stone tablet at the Daikanyama border when you drove in?"
The stone tablet…
Spencer searched his memory. As he drove past the entrance to the Daikanyama district, there had been a very old, strange stone monument standing at the border, worn down by weather.
Its engraved contents had been deeply puzzling:
"They're here. They've always been here…."
.....
.....
.....
Support me and read advance chapters on patreon.com/ImmortalDaoWriter