Chapter 745

The desert night was bitterly cold.

The scorching sun and heat haze were gone. In their place remained subzero temperatures and an unusually large moon.

A temperature swing of sixty degrees¹ in a single day.

But even the bitter cold could not stop the figure climbing a crescent-shaped dune.

Sssrrk.

Despite the steep slope, the figure moved as though gliding across the sand. The hem of a thin silk robe brushed the grains, then came to a stop.

“This is the place.”

The moment that flat voice sounded, the empty air rippled.

Ffft.

With a faint sound, a dozen or so figures descended onto the dune. Their faces hidden behind black masks and turbans, they each dropped respectfully to one knee and whispered,

“Inshallah.² We pay our respects to the great Prophet who has returned to this land.”

Standing alone before them, the Prophet’s robe fluttered lightly.

“Inshallah.² I wondered when you would reveal yourselves.”

Those words made it clear that the Prophet had seen through everything from the beginning. The dozen pairs of eyes visible above the masks trembled.

“Prophet…”

“I know. You followed me because you care for me, even though it meant defying my orders.”

“If you would punish us for our disobedience, we would gladly pay for it with our lives. But we, the Hasasin, will never leave your side, no matter the circumstances.”

The Hasasin. Or the Assassins.

Their stronghold had fallen to their enemies around the thirteenth century. For centuries afterward, the ancient order of assassins had survived as little more than a religious sect, until the Great Cataclysm brought it back to life.

Its members would not be dissuaded.

“The Western heretics are cunning, and they wield great power. If they were to discover you…”

“Al-Nizar. Loyal beyond any other, yet foolish and full of worry.”

“…!”

“Look at me.”

The leader of the Hasasin flinched and cautiously raised his head.

His great Prophet gazed down at him, silhouetted against a sky strewn with stars. Within the strangely dark folds of the robe, a pair of eyes shone with a mysterious light.

“Do you still not understand?”

The Prophet raised both arms toward the sky.

Vwoooom.

An immense force swelled beneath the robe, pushing its folds outward. The wind died. The air vibrated.

The Hasasin swallowed without realizing it. Their eyes followed the Prophet’s hands, and in the next moment—

Shhhhhhhk.

They saw it: a transparent membrane that began in the sky and curved around them, enclosing an area several hundred meters³ in radius.

It was both a protective barrier that no product of science—not even Magic—could detect and a screen that concealed them from their enemies’ eyes.

“As long as I protect you, they will not find so much as our shadows.”

“…!”

“…!”

Even the Hasasin, who had endured extreme training, could not hide their surging emotions at that moment.

Their Prophet possessed such astonishing power. And the Prophet had called lowly servants like them us.

“Inshallah²…!”

“Prophet!”

Their cries of joy and emotion echoed through the quiet desert.

But the Prophet had another miracle to show them.

Sssrrk.

The long, loose sleeve of the robe fluttered. The crescent-shaped dune beneath their feet shook.

No—it split apart.

Crk-crk-crk!

It was a wondrous sight.

In the distant past, Moses had parted the Red Sea and led the Hebrews across it. Now, more than a thousand years later, a new Prophet had divided part of a vast sea of sand in two.

What lay hidden beneath those countless grains glittered in the moonlight like a gift from God.

“My God…”

“Prophet, what are those?”

Instead of answering, the Prophet silently extended a hand.

Clank. Clank. Clank!

Locks burst apart under an invisible force. The leader of the Hasasin stared wide-eyed at the contents of the dozens of iron chests.

“T-this is…”

Even the darkness could not hide their brilliance.

Gold and silver bars in quantities he had never seen, and weapons imbued with various kinds of Magic, dazzled him. But something else shocked him most of all.

“Magic Gems…!”

The cry that escaped him like a groan was the truth.

Magic Gems.

Hundreds of them, unmistakably high-grade to top-grade. Some were exceptionally large and radiated immense power.

Fwoooosh.

Even he, a leader of the Hasasin who had reached the realm of an S-rank Hunter, could not easily approach that powerful energy.

“Hk.”

He drew a sharp breath before he could stop himself. The Prophet’s familiar, toneless voice reached him.

“S-rank Magic Gems. Their original power remains intact.”

“P-Prophet…”

“Stand back. That power is beyond you.”

With that quiet warning, the unrefined S-rank Magic Gems floated into the air. They moved like living things and disappeared into the Prophet’s robe.

Ten of them.

The leader of the Hasasin watched, his gaze trembling.

How did the Prophet get hold of those…?

He already knew the Prophet’s abilities defied common sense.

But from the Great Cataclysm until now, only a little over a hundred S-rank monsters had officially appeared in human history.

On extremely rare occasions, a tiny number of A-rank monsters had possessed S-rank Magic Gems. But those instances were exactly what they were—exceptional cases. Even in the Middle East, where countless Gates existed, S-rank Magic Gems had appeared only once or twice.

Yet here were ten of them, their original magical power intact.

That’s an incredible amount. It’s impossible to believe.

His faith in the Prophet was boundless, but this time he could not help wanting to ask.

He turned his head—and met the faintly glowing eyes within the robe.

“Tell me. Who do you think stands before you?”

“…!”

The gaze seemed to see through him. Shock struck the leader of the Hasasin like lightning, and he dropped to his knees.

How dare someone like him question the Prophet’s actions?

It was something that could not happen—and must never happen.

“Great Prophet, please forgive this sinful servant!”

The air froze.

The other Hasasin touched their weapons and waited for the Prophet to speak. If the order came, they were ready to kill their own leader without a moment’s hesitation.

The Prophet spoke God’s word and led them all.

Since the death of the Prophet Muhammad, the Islamic world had spent more than a thousand years feuding and fighting. Blood had stained the desert sands.

Over time, a tiny few had gained immense wealth and power. But in the great cities built on oil, the word of Allah had given way to the capitalism of apostates.

It was time to bring Allah’s children, who had turned their blades on one another, back to a single root—and to save their fellow believers persecuted even in the Western world.

In the name of the great God.

In the name of the Prophet who had come to them decades ago in God’s stead.

And just as an invisible blade slowly cut through the silence, one tightly closed mouth finally opened.

“Al-Nizar.”

The voice revealed neither age nor even gender.

The leader of the Hasasin swallowed. Cold sweat had soaked him from head to toe.

“Prophet.”

“One last piece of advice, my son of God. You are still immature—and that is precisely why I care for you all the more.”

“…!”

“Inshallah.² All of this is the result of the long patience and providence God has granted me. You must never doubt it. Do you understand?”

“I’ll remember. I’ll remember.”

Drip.

Cold sweat and tears fell together onto the sand.

The Prophet gazed kindly at the leader as he trembled with relief and emotion, then continued.

“The time has come again. Tell your brothers who have been preparing.”

Everyone’s eyes widened.

Nearly ten days had passed since the day they called “Allah’s Judgment.” All who followed the Prophet had been waiting impatiently for the next day of judgment.

“Prophet. Do you mean…?”

“God wills it. Bring down His hammer upon the apostates eating away at us from within and the Western heretics.”

The eyes visible above the masks gleamed with fanaticism and exultation.

The Prophet looked up at the star-strewn sky and murmured,

“There is not much time left until the end.”

Some wanted catastrophe. Some struggled to prevent it. Still others wanted something beyond it.

Even now, each was racing toward a different goal.

Sugihara Gyoiku was a laborer who had worked in cargo shipping for a long time.

He was a lifelong Tokyo native and, at the same time, a seasoned laborer who had entered the maritime transport industry when he was young.

People sometimes looked down on him for doing manual labor, but he did not care much. Not everyone could be a Hunter, lawyer, or doctor, and the world needed people like him, too.

Lately, though, he had been in a foul mood.

How could he not be?

Chikushō.⁴ Damn monsters.

Just ten days earlier, a Monster Wave in Tokyo had killed and injured many people.

Tokyo Tower, which he had secretly been proud of as a Tokyo native, had collapsed horribly. The chicken restaurant he had frequented for thirty years had also vanished in the aftermath.

I didn’t like that the owner was a Chosenjin,⁵ but the chicken was incredible.

Gyoiku was sad that he could no longer stop in for Korean-style chicken and beer after work. Still, he went to work today as usual.

“Gyoiku-san.⁶ You’re here?”

“Yo.”

He exchanged brief greetings with the other dockworkers and headed straight to the work site. Cargo ships already crowded Tokyo Bay.

“Where should we start?”

“We’ve already started. Come on.”

As Gyoiku loaded cargo onto a ship, he chatted with his coworkers. Tokyo’s magical-power levels had been rising particularly fast lately. The prime minister, scion of a prominent political family, had said something insane again.

Then someone mentioned a tsunami.

“A tsunami?”

“Yeah. Apparently it’s getting closer to Tokyo. They say it’s huge.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t worry. The government said it would die down soon.”

“Guess it will.”

Gyoiku felt a little uneasy, but only a little. Even if there was a tsunami, it would never make it all the way to Tokyo. Tokyo Bay was sheltered by the land around it, and its magical defense systems were firmly in place.

Maybe I’ll look for a new Korean chicken place after work.

Gyoiku straightened his back, thinking about something pointless—and froze like a statue.

“Huh?”

What is that?

The question flashed through his mind. A moment later, he remembered what he had just heard.

The tsunami.

Gyoiku stared blankly, mouth open, toward the sea beyond the harbor.

A wave larger than any he had ever seen was racing toward him. It rose so high it looked ready to blot out the sun.

Goooooong.

Along with the cry of some unknown thing—a sound that froze him merely by hearing it.