Karasawa pressed himself against the corner of the wall, just enough to peek around and watch the road in front of the Maru residence.
Gray silhouettes lined both sides of the street, crouched silently on the ground in a rigid bow toward the palanquin being carried by several other shadowy figures at the center of the path.
Shadows—monsters of the cognitive world. Ordinary ones are drawn to a palace ruler's desires, reflecting fragments of their consciousness and perception. But unique shadows, like the ones in Maru Chujirou's palace, are manifestations of a twisted psyche—faithful echoes of the person's true inner self and personality.
In this Conan-infused world, there's no shortage of depraved murderers and morally bankrupt victims. Just leveraging the cognitive world alone already gave Karasawa a massive sandbox to play in.
These shadows kneeling in droves, and the samurai carrying the palanquin, were Maru Chujirou's inner image of how others should see him.
The lacquered gold embellishments on the palanquin sparkled with ostentatious pride. Clearly, in this old man's mind, he fancied himself some grand figure—maybe even a feudal shogun.
Ugly as sin, delusions of grandeur.
Karasawa shook his head and didn't step onto that street. Instead, he skirted the outer edge of the Maru estate, searching for an opening.
There was no doubt that Maru Chujirou's shadow was sitting inside that palanquin. A pity Karasawa hadn't awakened his powers yet—otherwise, a frontal assault would've been on the table. Kick down the front door, wrap it up in one go.
…Wait, if this follows the original setup, wouldn't awakening his Persona require a moment of intense emotion? Near-death crisis, desperate tension—that kind of thing?
The more he thought about it, the lighter his steps became.
It all felt like a trap. Given the story structure, he'd have to awaken eventually. Better to tread carefully in the meantime.
The Maru estate had transformed into a daimyō mansion: ornate beams, golden walls, and gilded eaves everywhere. Patrols of shadowy samurai roamed in twos and threes. Karasawa had to circle around to the rear before finding a suitable spot to climb the wall.
Timing it with a patrol's retreating footsteps, Karasawa crept up to the wall, gripped the roof tiles, and began to climb.
He didn't jump straight down—no idea how many guards might be inside. Instead, he crawled up onto the nearest rooftop, crouching low as he inched toward the central ridge and peeked carefully over the edge.
His caution paid off. The courtyard was wide and open, with almost no cover. Shadows stood sentinel at every doorway. Up on the main building's upper floors, there were even archers keeping watch, their eyes scanning the courtyard like hawks.
If he'd just gone full YOLO and leapt over the wall, he would've been caught instantly.
Why are there this many enemies in such a tiny estate? What is this, Sekiro?
Despite the internal complaints, Karasawa did as any stealth game veteran would—flattened himself to the roof and started creeping toward the main building.
Twenty minutes later, he made it onto the main building's roof. From his new vantage point, he looked down at the courtyard.
Thank god this was Japan—even a daimyō mansion only had two courtyards.
If this were the Forbidden City, he'd be climbing till tomorrow night and still wouldn't be done.
This place was heavily guarded—sentinels at the door, archers above. Odds were, this was the treasure vault: the palace's core, the physical embodiment of the palace ruler's deepest desire and its origin.
Was it just because Maru Chujirou was kind of a scrub? Why was it this easy to find the palace's heart? Barely took an hour.
Karasawa failed to realize that his previous infiltration experience had let him completely bypass the palace's intended dungeon sequence. He had, essentially, skipped class.
Still, being lucky was no bad thing. This wasn't Persona 5, where you get weeks of in-game time to clear a palace. For all he knew, Maru Chujirou might have a breakdown tomorrow and show up at Mōri Kogorō's office—then it'd be game over.
With that in mind, having no powers for now didn't matter. If he didn't plan to kick down the door, he could just drop a calling card and sneak back in tomorrow to steal the treasure.
No violence needed—besides, door-kicking Phantom Thieves? Not very canon.
Down in the courtyard, something was being set up—some kind of entertainment. Tables and carpets were laid out neatly. Samurai shadows walked in and out, placing trays on the tables.
Karasawa squinted. The trays were piled high with money and valuables—wads of cash stacked into triangles, mounds of gold dust and pearls heaped like little hills. The whole display practically screamed "bling."
Honestly, this kind of ostentation suited a loan shark's aesthetic.
As Karasawa studied the layout and mapped out his route, the samurai shadows suddenly turned in unison to salute the main entrance.
Karasawa ducked back instantly, pressing tight against the roof, peering out with one eye.
Maru Chujirou had returned.
He sat behind the tables, grabbing a few gemstones from a tray and toying with them idly.
"Where's the new help? Bring them up," he said casually.
The samurai barked in response. Soon, a group of shackled figures were dragged in, bound together by thick chains.
These weren't shadows. They had real, distinct faces.
Karasawa recognized the man he'd bumped into that afternoon—long face, thin mustache. Easy to spot.
So these were all Maru Chujirou's debtors.
They weren't real people, just cognitive constructs based on the palace ruler's perceptions—NPCs modeled after real individuals, capable of reflecting the ruler's views of them.
And to Maru Chujirou, anyone in debt was a prisoner, a slave.
The captives were yanked to the ground before the table. Samurai shadows with trays stood beside them, awaiting inspection.
Maru Chujirou strolled among them, examining their offerings.
He slipped a necklace into his sleeve, then kicked aside an old man who was struggling violently. A nearby samurai raised his blade and hacked down at the man's hands.
The courtyard echoed with a shriek of agony as Maru Chujirou moved on, utterly unbothered.
"Cheap trinkets? Are you blind? You wanted to pawn this for a million yen? Sounds like you don't need those eyes anymore!"
"Hah? Trying to con me with this junk? You! Cut off his head and serve it on a tray. That'll cover the collateral."
"A rusty old sword passed off as a family heirloom? What a pathetic lowlife. I'll just sell it off and count it as your interest."
What had been a clean, orderly courtyard now looked like a blood-soaked execution ground. Some victims lay silent and unmoving, while others writhed and wailed, clutching severed limbs.
Even knowing they weren't real people—just dolls conjured from memory—Karasawa found himself frowning deeply.
"A hellish scroll come to life… all this bloodlust, just from a guy who hands out loans?"
Maru Chujirou was clearly rich by now. So why continue with these petty asset seizures? Maybe it wasn't about the money anymore. Maybe he just liked seeing people grovel in despair at his feet.
A real freak. No wonder he manifested a palace.
"No decent collateral? Cops are all this broke?" Maru Chujirou sneered again. Karasawa looked over at the next man—and his heart clenched.
The tall man wore a police uniform, slumped on the ground in disarray. No tray in sight—just a samurai shadow gripping a small girl, bound hand and foot.
The man tried to sit up, chains rattling with the effort, but couldn't manage it. His right pant leg hung limp and empty.
"…Fine. Your daughter's cute enough. I'll take her," Maru Chujirou said offhandedly. "You're a cripple now anyway. No use for those legs. Cut off the other one too."
Karasawa's temples throbbed. His fingers dug into the roof tiles.