Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

Chapter 296: A Poem No Longer True

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{Outside The Projection}

As was usual, the crowd didn’t know what to say.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much.

Too many thoughts ran wild in their heads. Too many emotions trying to tear their way out of their mouths all at once.

They were absolutely stunned. Speechless. Lost for words. Dumbstruck. Tongue-tied. Dumbfounded. Shell-shocked. Astounded. Flabbergasted. And simply gobsmacked.

They were far from okay.

The build-up to what they had just seen had already floored them. But this?

It was beyond the floor. Somewhere underground, inside the core of the earth, knees shaking from the aftershocks.

Malik’s ascension into a Great Demon.

Another achievement in his long list of impossibles.

He had done this particular ’achievement’ twice.

Twice.

And it was somehow even worse.

Absorbing an opposite-element core was suicide.

They could not understand how he had even survived, never mind succeeded.

It went against all the rules they had studied about the world.

And that power…

His cruel, all-consuming power, glowing gold, shattering the battlefield into something between a mass grave and a monument—yeah, he let them win.

Curse, “Blessing,” or not, it didn’t matter.

Malik was already THAT strong when he was just a Jinn.

They simply could not fathom the power he obtained when he became a Mithqal and neared the status of Malāk, an Angel… it was hilarious they thought they even had a chance to begin with, no matter their number, no matter the strength of their leaders, even if Zafar’s luck was trickling down to them.

The power on display left the crowd with no proper way to describe the feelings that burned in their chests.

It was catharsis, yes. But also a strange high. The kind of emotion one wasn’t supposed to feel after seeing thirty thousand men die.

A whole army, wiped off the map by a single man.

But they felt it anyway.

Because, though it was real, it felt fake.

Because it was so wild. So out of the ordinary.

Because man was not supposed to see death like this.

Not this much, not this quick. Not this… easy. But they did.

And more than that, the Banu Sasan, the camp, impassioned fools—

The crowd had connected with them so fast.

It was shocking how that happened.

They never thought it possible.

It made them feel like they had met someone on the street and realized ten minutes later they’d die for them.

Were they all built that way? Just lovable? Trusting? People who they themselves trusted like they’d never been betrayed and fought like they knew they always would be?

Maybe.

Or maybe it was just that they were relatable. Real.

Not like the others they’d seen in the projection.

The Banu Sasan weren’t saints or generals.

They, like most of them, were just people.

Desperate, flawed, passionate people.

Actually… maybe not.

Maybe they weren’t like them. Maybe they were better.

In any case, they were good people. And Malik wasn’t the only one who’d seen that.

It was just… once again, they all saw it too late.

Still. Better late than never, right?

…Right?

Yeah. They didn’t know.

Anyway.

It was good to see Malik and Sinbad working together again. Really good.

It reminded them of the first day, when the projection was as alien as could be.

When it showed memories of Malik in Althawul, where they were nothing but starving teens searching for food in a foreign land.

Back then, things were simpler.

Now, everything had become a lot more twisted.

Incredibly so.

Malik had become… that.

And Sinbad’s soul made itself at home in an owl.

But hey. At least they were still together… eh?

Sinbad, laid out beside the Golden Throne, eyes half-lidded, crimson feathers fluttering around Dunya’s still-sobbing form, watched the projection with something that might’ve been pride.

He saw what was coming.

He knew. Of course he did.

His eyes sparkled for a second, until he turned and looked at Noor and Roya.

And then he almost smirked, if that was even possible on an owl.

It was for an obvious reason.

Those two were so pissed off.

Though they tried so hard not to show it, he could see it as plain as day.

On each side of the hall, they stood still. Breathing slow, their faces calm but barely, the tips of their ears red, their hands clenched tight.

Despite the logical part of their minds, they had gotten so excited when Malik managed to absorb the Ṭāghiya’s core.

They leaned forward, poised to learn something world-changing.

They were hungry. Ready to dive in and pick this meal apart.

Finally, they’d get to learn a technique on their level!

And what did they get?

’He felt it.’

That was it.

Their faces couldn’t help but fall from shock.

Not because of just how impossible it was, which, in all honesty, was a factor, but mostly due to how incomprehensible his ’instructions’ were.

There was nothing to analyze. No numbers, specific timings, or a count of increments like his first impossible, not even any visible techniques to mimic.

Technically speaking, he didn’t calculate anything.

Just feeling.

HE FELT THEM.

How were they supposed to extract that?!

How were they supposed to replicate that?!

They looked like they’d been handed the blueprints to God’s contraption, only to find it written in toddler chalk.

Useless.

Infuriating.

Beautiful.

Though that last part was only Sinbad.

He loved every second of it.

He was basking in their failure.

Noor glared at him. Roya didn’t even bother.

And that made him enjoy it even more.

And that wasn’t the only thing he enjoyed.

Shimr.

Knowing how he went made seeing him again so… refreshing, satisfying.

The man-child had all of Cyrus’s sassiness without the charm and knowledge.

Sinbad despised that bastard, but to many others, Cyrus was a bit hard to hate.

And though he’d never ever acknowledge it, his bastard of an uncle was looking out for Malik.

Of course, that was for his own interest as a Sultan, but it didn’t change the fact that he was watching over him.

…Sinbad’s smile faded quickly.

It wasn’t because of that bastard.

No, he had gotten over him… somewhat.

Dunya was still crying.

Her soft sniffles and little hiccups had returned as she curled in like she was trying to disappear into his feathers.

He lowered his head gently, brushing her temple with his beak.

And then, once she calmed down a little, he looked toward the others.

Before him, Layla had gone absolutely still.

Her eyes were red but dry.

She didn’t speak, but the horror on her face was louder than anything.

And Huda—his little sister—was hugging her knees, staring at the floor, lips trembling.

They weren’t handling it well; only his friend Azeem did.

The blood. The fire. The bodies.

People kicked in half. Men burning alive.

Malik fighting like he hated everything that ever lived.

They didn’t like seeing their loved one like that. Didn’t like the violence. Didn’t like how much of it came from him.

And even though the projection labeled those men as bandits—

Even though they deserved it—

They were still her people.

As despicable as they were… still Huda’s people. Still.

And seeing them die like that, thirty thousand gone in the blink of her eyes…

Indeed, the projection was right.

It wasn’t just war.

It was slaughter. And it simply hurt to watch.

Sinbad, though, watched it with undisturbed pride.

That was clear now.

Because only he had been there.

Only he had fought beside Malik that day.

At least only he amongst those in this hall…

He turned his gaze to the projection again.

A flicker of golden fire still burned in that desert of burning snow, sand, ash, and bone.

Malik held on to his sword, leaning on it, unmoving.

Sinbad exhaled a soft hoot.

And then, in a whisper that only the throne could hear, he murmured:

“…You really did it, didn’t you, Elder Brother?”

He closed his eyes.

And remembered the poem.

A poem Malik had once recited under his breath when no one else was around.

A poem meant for someone long dead.

A poem that was no longer true.

’…Death has been decreed by the tyrant of tyrants,’

’And just as you died defending your children,’

’I, too, shall die defending mine.’

’”Never to humiliation”—so said you, my commander.’

’Your eyes will meet mine, and they will see,’

’They will be pleased when I rise and the enemies flee,’

’And the fiercest of them retreat from my blade.’

’I have warned them of the greater danger,’

’And he who warns has done his duty, O brother.’

’Let the battlefield celebrate when war rages,’

’Let me hunt heroes in the arena of battle.’

’None like me will be found in combat,’

’And atop the warriors, I will stride,’

’They will find no escape from death.’

’Today, let those who do not know me see,’

’Today, I will let them witness the Stranger.’

’As I roar in battle, I will strike my enemies,’

’With the red jaws of death, O brother.’

’When I step forth, my eyes shall not close,’

’If my thirsty sword drinks, I shall relive the Gate,’

’And trample upon the necks of the pitiful.’

’A sight that will please you, O brother.’

’Soon, I shall join you with glad tidings,’

’And in your eyes, I shall find a heart at peace.’

’But behind me, I will leave a body on the burning sand.’

’Bury me in the warmth of your memory, O brother,’

’For none shall remain to weep for me.’

’I will go as I had come, O brother—’

’A wronged Stranger.’

A poem for a man who had no grave.

A final cry from the “Stranger.”

A dirge for the lost.

It was an insurmountable path.

But oh, how glorious it was to watch him walk it.

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