The scorching heat of the Middle East was unlike anything experienced in Japan. The air brimmed with an ethnic mystique — traces of ancient desert ancestors lingered everywhere, imparting a sense of solemn beauty and timelessness. Yet, in that foreign city steeped in old-world atmosphere, a large-scale terrorist attack suddenly erupted.
When one hears the phrase the Middle East, readers may conjure images of religious fundamentalists — a society pervaded by male dominance, isolationism, and a disregard for legal order; perhaps, too, the notion of a barbaric people untouched by modern reason. But was that truly the case? The people surrounding Kindaichi Nanashi were, for the most part, warm-hearted, cheerful, and filled with human kindness. There were, of course, those who would sneer at him simply for being Asian — but such prejudice exists in every country.
The merchants and self-proclaimed "Asia experts" were another matter. Whether restaurant owners or shady street peddlers, they accepted anyone who came with money and friendliness. With the decline in Asian visitors in recent years, some of the old prejudices had eased; perhaps that is why they now welcomed others with open hearts and genuine hospitality.
At one small shop Nanashi happened to visit, the owner — who said that a Japanese doctor had once saved his life — sold him goods worth 5,000 yen for only 1,000. Though this Middle Eastern nation was known for valuing decorum and appearances, its people also upheld a strong spirit of helping those in need. During his long stay, Nanashi had solved several local incidents, and his name gradually became known among certain circles in the city.
That spirit of mutual aid was, after all, rooted in the country's religious values. Yet even the grandson of a great detective could not prevent every tragedy. The terrorist attack that tore through the city center — whether the work of fundamentalists, rival sects, or agents of another nation — remained uncertain. What was certain was the horror itself: bombs and bullets took countless lives before Nanashi's eyes.
Street vendors, restaurant owners, an elderly man who always basked in the sun, a student doodling on a wall, children playing street soccer — all of them unarmed, powerless, and mercilessly slain.
Nanashi walked among the mountains of corpses, cradling the lifeless body of a boy he knew. Just moments before, the boy had been breathing; now his body was still.
Then, from a nearby house, several armed men emerged — Kalashnikov rifles hanging from their shoulders. Two or three of them carried bloodstained machetes. One gripped, in his other hand, the severed head of a woman.
"What's this guy?"
A masked man pointed at Nanashi, speaking in Arabic.
"An Asian... maybe Chinese?"
One of them stepped closer. Nanashi gently laid the boy's lifeless body on the ground and clasped his hands together in prayer — for peace upon the child's soul, despite their differing faiths. The men exchanged glances, sneering at the gesture as if mocking his foolishness.
Nanashi slowly rose to his feet.
What happened next, even he couldn't clearly remember. When he came to his senses, the militants were already down. The man before him was riddled with bullet holes; two others had gaping wounds in their heads. Another had been torn apart — his grenade struck by gunfire.
Only one fighter was still alive. Nanashi dragged him into a deserted house and sat him down in what seemed to be the living room. The man's leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Nanashi kicked it hard. The man's scream echoed through the room.
"Who did it?"
Nanashi asked slowly, in Arabic.
"W–what are you talking about?"
Nanashi twisted the man's arm the wrong way; a dull crack sounded, followed by a scream. As the man writhed, Nanashi pressed his chest down with his foot to keep him from falling off the chair.
"Who did it?"
"I told you, what are you talking about!?"
Nanashi picked up the knife from the man's belt and made a deep cut across his right eye. The man's eye burst; his face contorted in agony.
"Who did it?"
The man finally blurted out the name of a terrorist organization — but Nanashi looked unconvinced. He knew that group lacked the funds to orchestrate an attack of this scale. They were known more for taking hostages and demanding ransom than for staging massacres.
Nanashi examined their gear. Everything seemed meticulously prepared for efficient killing — well-maintained weapons, coordinated formation, military precision. Too organized for a declining terrorist faction. There had to be something larger behind them… or perhaps they were merely disposable pawns.
He searched the fighters' pockets. Cigarettes, alcohol, handkerchiefs — all ordinary things. But every one of them carried a brand-new first-aid kit. Looted supplies, perhaps?
Then he checked the jeep they had arrived in. Inside was a box marked with a red crescent.
"...This is—"
Just then, a sound came from behind him.
The bed sheets, the floor, the walls — all had been white, but now they were smeared red as if someone had carelessly daubed paint across them. The windows were open, yet the breeze that came in offered no relief; the room was thick with stifling heat.
The Middle Eastern heat was not the sticky humidity of Japan but a dry, stabbing blaze that seared the skin. You sweat, but more than that you feel as if the sunlight itself is burning you.
Nanashi, who had been caught up in the terrorist attack that struck the outskirts of the capital, was once again enduring the sting of a bullet. While he had been unarmed and throwing fighters to the ground, a Kalashnikov round had passed through his right shoulder. Gasping for breath, he had managed to make his way back to the hotel where his friend Tōgōji Shōichi was staying — but by then the terrorists had already finished their carnage.
The man who had known him lay collapsed on a hospital bed, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him. Hospital staff disinfected Nanashi's shoulder, but the situation was so urgent there was no time even to wrap a proper bandage; his wound was left as it was. Shōichi's injuries were worse, and the doctors were engrossed in trying to save him. They kept checking, urgently, whether an intensive-care bed was available — but the ICU was full, so they had no choice but to shove the two of them into an empty general ward.
"The bleeding won't stop," a doctor said, his voice betraying panic.
The hospital corridors and entrance were overflowing with victims of the shooting. This facility was the only one nearby that lay close to a security authority building and was therefore considered relatively safer from the immediate threat of the attack.
"Ki—Kindaichi-kun. Take this, please."
Shōichi produced a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and the pendant he wore on his chest, and handed them to Nanashi.
"I want to go back… I want to go back, Kindaichi-kun… If I don't go back… my sisters will be killed… they'll all die… so—go to Gokumon Island. Go to Gokumon Island..."
By then the wind had died entirely, and the heat in the room grew even more oppressive.
A chill ran down Nanashi's spine — the kind that makes cold sweat bead on your skin.
The man had died with unfulfilled regret still clouding his face. His eyes remained open, a single tear trailing down from the corner. His mouth was locked tight, teeth clenched as though in defiance of fate. The hand that had pressed against his wound was soaked in his own blood.
It was a death that seemed to embody the very essence of despair in this world — so raw, so absolute, that Nanashi could do nothing but stand there, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it.