The taxi made a brief stop at a bank before cutting through the bustling city center, eventually arriving at a cluster of abandoned factories near the docks.
The rusty iron gates of the factory stood half-ajar. Master Kisaragi stepped out of the vehicle, cast a wary glance at his surroundings, and then walked inside, clutching a heavy bag.
"Let's move."
Hayashi Shuichi unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped out of the car with Yusaku Kudo, and began making his way toward the derelict building.
"You two still haven't told me why on earth we're tailing Master Kisaragi!"
Inspector Megure scratched his head in frustration, but seeing the two men ahead of him, he had no choice but to hurry after them.
The interior of the factory was dim and oppressive. The damp sea breeze carried the pungent smell of machine oil, and the skittering of rats could be heard in the shadows.
Shuichi and his companions advanced cautiously. Soon, voices drifted from the darkness ahead.
"...Did you bring the money?" a rough, gravelly male voice asked, sounding impatient.
Shuichi and Yusaku exchanged a silent nod, ducking behind a piece of abandoned machinery to listen.
Driven by curiosity, Inspector Megure peeked through a gap in some rusted piping. The sight that met his eyes left him reeling: Master Kisaragi was handing over a bag full of cash to a bald man.
Under the dim, flickering light, the bald man crouched on the floor, rapidly counting the stacks of bills. A tall man leaned against a nearby wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips; his face looked terrifyingly grim through the swirling smoke. Nearby, a shorter man held a canvas—the Mount Fuji painting was clearly visible.
Are they...?
Megure's pupils shrank. He turned to Shuichi in disbelief.
Shuichi didn't speak. He simply traced a few words in the dust on the pipe: The museum robbers.
It really was them!
Megure's heart hammered against his ribs. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Master Kisaragi was clearly the victim—how could he be in league with the very men who had held a gun to his head?
Just then, Master Kisaragi's voice rang out, cold and sharp.
"As we agreed, I have given you the money. Now, give me back the painting."
His tone was a world away from the panicked old man they had seen at the museum. He was calm, calculated, and sounded like a completely different person.
The short thug suddenly burst into a fit of grating, mocking laughter. "Master, do you take us for idiots? This painting is worth over two hundred million. You think you can just pay us this pittance and call it a day?"
"This painting isn't worth two hundred million!" Master Kisaragi's voice rose sharply, trembling with suppressed rage. "That value was entirely fabricated! Even if you tried to sell it, you wouldn't get a fraction of that amount!"
"Don't go back on your word! Give me the painting!"
"Our word?"
The tall thug let out a cold sneer. He spat out his cigarette and ground it under his boot. "You're the one who hired us to rob your own artwork. If word of this got out, your reputation would be finished, wouldn't it?"
He took a menacing step forward, his face dark with anger. "One of our brothers died for this painting. You need to show a little more 'appreciation' for that, don't you think?"
"That was your own incompetence!" Kisaragi clenched his fists, his face flushed with fury. "What did you tell me before? That this would be easy! And look at what happened!"
"If I hadn't stepped forward to act as your hostage, you would have been caught long ago—"
"Shut up!" the short thug barked, cutting him off. "Either you pay up more, or we leak this to the press! 'Great Artist Hosui Kisaragi Hires Thugs to Rob Himself.' Imagine how that headline would sell!"
"You... you understand nothing! That painting is my shame! That bastard businessman forced me to—"
Kisaragi's eyes were bloodshot. He suddenly lunged forward, reaching for the frame. "Give it back to me!"
"Get lost!"
The short thug grinned wickedly and buried a heavy fist into Master Kisaragi's abdomen. The artist collapsed instantly, his frail, withered body curling up in agony.
Inspector Megure could no longer restrain himself. He burst out from behind the pipes, shouting, "Stop right there!"
Shuichi and Yusaku shared a resigned look before moving in behind him.
"Dammit, it's you two!"
Seeing Shuichi and Yusaku, the tall thug's face paled. He reflexively reached behind his back for his gun, only to remember that Shuichi had kicked it away earlier.
In that moment of hesitation, Yusaku Kudo bolted forward. His right leg whipped out like a lash, striking the man squarely in the knee.
Thud!
The tall thug crashed to the floor. Before he could struggle, Yusaku pinned him down with professional efficiency.
On the other side, Hayashi Shuichi moved even faster. Before the short thug could even register the intrusion, Shuichi delivered a precise knife-hand strike to the side of his neck. The man's eyes rolled back, and he slumped into a heap on the ground.
The bald driver, who had been busy counting the money, saw the tide turn and grabbed the cash bag to make a run for it.
"Freeze! Police!"
Megure drew his service weapon, aiming directly at the man's back. "Take another step and I'll fire!"
The bald man froze mid-stride. He remembered his yellow-haired companion who had been shot dead. Staring down the barrel of the gun, he didn't dare move. He dropped the bag, raised his hands, and knelt on the floor, allowing Megure to snap the handcuffs onto his wrists.
"The painting! My painting!"
While the three men were neutralizing the thugs, Master Kisaragi scrambled toward the Mount Fuji canvas.
Then, before their shocked eyes, he began to tear at it like a madman.
Riiip—!
The fragile paper disintegrated under his hands. The majestic silhouette of Mount Fuji was shredded into fragments, which fluttered down to the oily floor like falling snow.
"Even if you destroy it, you can't erase the crime of hiring robbers," Shuichi said coldly.
Master Kisaragi slumped on the floor, but a smile of pure relief spread across his face. "...I know. For me, as long as this painting is destroyed, nothing else matters."
"What is the meaning of this?" Megure asked, scratching his head in bewilderment. "Master, isn't this your work? Why destroy it?"
Master Kisaragi lowered his head in silence, his thin shoulders trembling. He was clearly unwilling to speak of the past.
"At the museum, you said this painting had no soul," Shuichi spoke up slowly. "You also said the value of art shouldn't be measured by money."
"That two-hundred-million-yen price tag from years ago... it was all just market hype, wasn't it?"
"Hype?" Megure looked even more confused.
Yusaku Kudo adjusted his glasses. "The value of many artworks is artificially inflated through market manipulation."
"Take this painting, for example. Without the hype, it might only be worth a few thousand yen, and Master Kisaragi would have remained an ordinary painter."
"But once that painting sold for the staggering price of two hundred million, Master Kisaragi's personal worth skyrocketed overnight, turning him into a world-renowned artist..."
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