Karasawa hugged the corner of a wall and peeked cautiously toward the road in front of the Maru residence.
On either side of the street knelt orderly gray silhouettes, bowed low in silence before a gilded palanquin carried aloft by several shadowy figures.
Shadows—monsters of the cognitive world—are drawn to a Palace ruler's warped desires. Regular shadows echo fragments of the ruler's thoughts and worldview; special shadows, like those in Maru's Palace, manifest as reflections of their twisted psyche, revealing the core of their nature.
In Conan's world, there was no shortage of corrupt killers and victims. Just utilizing the cognitive world alone, Karasawa figured he had plenty of room to maneuver.
These shadows kneeling like peasants before samurai were clearly how Maru Tsuenjiro perceived those around him.
The palanquin shimmered with ornate gold inlays and lacquered embellishments, radiant and gaudy—evidently in Maru's mind, he was some kind of shogunate lord or great daimyō.
Truly hideous to look at, and even uglier in the mind.
Karasawa shook his head, keeping away from that street, instead circling around the outer perimeter of the Maru compound in search of an entry point.
The shadow of Maru Tsuenjiro was undoubtedly inside that palanquin, but Karasawa had yet to awaken his Persona. Charging in from the front with brute force was off the table.
…Come to think of it, if things followed canon, wouldn't his awakening require him to be cornered, emotionally shaken, and all that?
His steps grew lighter as the thought took root.
The more he considered it, the more it felt like a setup. If he was destined to awaken eventually, better tread carefully until then.
The Maru estate, now transformed into a lavish daimyō residence, glittered with ornate carvings and gilded rooftops. Patrol squads of samurai shadows roamed the compound. Only after circling to the rear did Karasawa find a wall low enough to scale.
Timing his move between the turns of a patrolling pair, he crept toward the wall, grabbed the tiled ledge, and hoisted himself up.
Uncertain of how many guards were within, Karasawa didn't drop straight in. Instead, he climbed onto a nearby rooftop, staying low as he crept along the ridge, surveying from above.
His caution paid off. The courtyard inside was wide open with almost no cover, and shadows were stationed at every doorway. Even elevated positions had archers poised for a kill shot. The place was sealed tighter than a bank vault.
If he had jumped in headfirst, he would've been dogpiled on the spot.
What kind of joke is this? Why are there so many shadows in one tiny courtyard? You think this is Sekiro?
Grumbling internally, Karasawa kept crawling, stealthing across the roofs like he was infiltrating a fortress.
Twenty minutes later, he'd reached the rooftop of the main residence and peeked down at the central courtyard.
Thank god this was Japan—no matter how lavish the daimyō manor, there were only two courtyards max.
If this had been the Forbidden City, he'd be crawling until sundown.
This house was by far the most heavily guarded, with sentries at the doors and archers on balconies. Most likely, this was where the Palace ruler's treasure was hidden—the source of their distorted desires.
Was Maru Tsuenjiro just that weak? How did Karasawa find the treasure room in under an hour?
He completely failed to realize his stealth game had just allowed him to skip half the dungeon.
Still, the sooner the better. This wasn't Persona 5 where you had weeks to clear a Palace. For all he knew, Maru might hire Mouri Kogorou tomorrow, and with the aura of death that guy dragged along, the Palace ruler would be a goner before he could blink.
With that in mind, not having his Persona awakened yet didn't matter much. If he could avoid combat, all he had to do was send the calling card and sneak back in tomorrow to steal the treasure—mission accomplished.
No violence required. Phantom Thieves should be stylish, not brutish!
Down below, some sort of banquet was being set up. Long low tables and mats were laid out, and shadow samurai were lining up to place trays upon them.
Karasawa squinted. The trays were piled high with cash, gold dust, pearls, gemstones—all arranged in pristine pyramids. A truly dazzling sight.
A loan shark throwing this kind of opulent party? Kind of tracks, actually.
While Karasawa scoped out roof angles and escape routes, the courtyard shadows all suddenly turned and bowed toward the gate.
He yanked his head back and pressed flat against the wall, peeking with just one eye.
Maru Tsuenjiro had arrived.
It was Karasawa's first look at the Palace ruler in the flesh. A man in his fifties, Maru wore an elaborately crested court kimono, his hair pinned beneath a noble's cap, waddling in with an air of pompous satisfaction.
He flopped down at the head of the table and began fondling a pile of gems, calling out lazily, "Bring in the new servants."
The shadows bowed in unison and exited, returning moments later dragging in a group of people chained together at the ankles and wrists.
These were not standard shadows; their faces were distinct—individualized. Karasawa immediately recognized the gaunt, mustached man from earlier that day.
These were debtors.
They weren't real people, but cognitive projections—NPCs modeled from the Palace ruler's memory, puppets that reflected how he viewed them.
In Maru's eyes, these people were nothing more than prisoners and slaves.
The chained "debtors" were forced to their knees. The shadows with trays stood beside them, awaiting their master's judgment.
Maru Tsuenjiro strolled to the first man, picked up a necklace, tossed it into the air, sneered, "Too light. That's all you've got at your age? Trash like you just wastes society's resources. Chop off his hands."
He pocketed the necklace and kicked the old man aside. A samurai shadow raised his blade.
The courtyard soon rang with screams and the sickening thud of violence.
"This is worthless junk. You trying to con me? Gouge his eyes out."
"What a joke. Off with his head!"
"A rusty old sword? That's your family heirloom? I'll just sell it off as interest!"
In minutes, the peaceful garden had become a blood-slick execution ground. Bodies writhed and bled, some twitching in agony, others limp and lifeless.
"A painting of hell…" Karasawa's face darkened. "And all this… for a loan?"
Even knowing these weren't real humans, the spectacle made his stomach churn. Clearly, Maru didn't just lend money—he enjoyed watching people beg, bleed, and break.
A sadistic freak. No wonder he formed a Palace.
"And this guy?" Maru's voice floated up again. "What kind of collateral is this? The police are poor as hell, huh?"
Karasawa's breath caught. The man kneeling before Maru wore a police uniform. His right leg was missing. Shackles dug into his wrists. A little girl was being dragged forward by a shadow like she was nothing more than a prize.
"Whatever. The daughter's cute enough, I guess. She'll do. He's crippled already—go ahead and cut off the other leg."
Karasawa's temple throbbed. He gripped the edge of the rooftop until the tiles cracked beneath his fingers.