Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

{Inside The Projection}

Morning came with the kind of crisp air that made Malik almost consider staying in bed a little longer. It was the first time he had the luxury to feel that, but he wasn't the type to laze around, and the road was calling.

He got up, stretched, and went to take a bath, stripping off his—

...

Malik stared at his reflection in the small mirror, something he hadn't done in ages.

The man looking back at him was a stranger. Not just the build—lean muscle where there was once nothing—but his face too.

Golden eyes studied him with an intensity he barely recognized. His long golden hair, reaching down to his neck, framed a face that could be called handsome, a world of difference from before.

He stood a little taller than most, another change, another reminder of how far he'd come.

Fresh clothes, all white. New boots, a sturdy belt, a coin pouch with a few silver jingling inside. Even a curved sword at his hip—just another in the long list of gifts he'd been given.

Damn. He seriously couldn't recognize himself... He almost looked like a noble.

"Malik!"

Interrupting his... admiring session? Was Khamal's scream.

Not needing to be called twice, Malik made sure he had everything on him and stepped outside his room, meeting Khamal near the ladder connected to the trapdoor.

"You clean up well."

Khamal nodded at him as he approached.

"I try... Got a few questions before I go; mind answering them?"

"No, of course not. Ask away."

"What can you tell me about the True South?"

Khamal scratched his chin.

"It's… a different world down there. The Holy Kingdom doesn't hold much sway past a certain point. Lots of independent territories, kingdoms, merchant guilds, and rogue villages. Some places, you'll find peace. Others, you'll find death. Depends on how lucky you are."

"Sounds about right."

"There's a stable near the edge of town. If you're to find any people heading south, they'll be there. Join them as a guard; earn your keep."

Malik nodded.

"Thanks. For the millionth time."

He extended a hand.

Khamal took it with a grin.

"Don't make a habit of it."

With that, Malik turned and left.

Neither said goodbye, knowing better than to say it.

...

The stables were a damn mess—loud, crowded, and full of people yelling over each other. Merchants loaded up their carts, handlers wrangled stubborn monsters, their hooves clattering against the dirt, wagons creaking under heavy loads, and the whole place reeked of hay, sweat, and dung.

"Heading east! Fast travel, cheap fare! Two spots left! Get in while you can!"

Someone hollered from atop a cart.

"To the Western empire! Silver coin for an extra blade!"

"Northbound! Need a sword—good pay!"

"Anyone headed for the highlands? Got room for a healer!"

It was chaos, and Malik weaved through it, sidestepping a shouting priestess who was waving her arms to catch attention while he checked one caravan after another.

"South! Are you going south?!"

"No—east, son!"

Same answer every time—no, not that way, try someone else, sorry, kid.

His scowl deepened with each rejection.

But then, as he passed by an old man resting on an upturned crate, the geezer suddenly reached out, grabbing Malik's sleeve.

"You a Magi, son?"

Continue reading at My Virtual Library Empire

The old man asked, squinting up at him.

"If you're on a pilgrimage, best find a clan. You go south alone, you'll wish you hadn't."

Malik sighed, offering a quick nod of thanks.

"Appreciate it, old man, but I don't have time for safety."

He pulled away and kept walking, pushing through the crowd.

This repeated for ten or so minutes, making him extremely frustrated with his luck.

How could none of these people be going south? Did God really hate him that much?

But just as he was about to take a break, a dark-skinned man with striking purple hair approached him.

"Hello, I heard you ask—"

The guy looked like he was finally about to bring an end to his search, but then he hesitated. His gaze studied Malik's face—a scowl, furrowed brows—and his face fell.

"Sorry."

He closed his mouth and walked past.

Malik blinked.

'The Hell was that?'

He frowned even harder, wondering what just happened.

Then it hit him.

'Ah... wait.'

The man must've thought he was some sort of racist.

'...Stop frowning. They're normal people... you're just... seeing things.'

Letting out a sigh, he relaxed his facial features as much as he could and shook his head.

'Stop being so fucked in the head and act right.'

Before the guy could get far, Malik reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and turned him back around.

"You had something to ask. Ask it."

The man hesitated, then slowly nodded.

"Are you looking for work?"

"Depends. Where you headed?"

"South."

Malik's eyes lit up.

"Then I'm in. Take me to your caravan. We'll talk payment."

The man studied him for a few more seconds, then nodded.

"I'm Ali Baba."

"Malik."

They shook hands.

"Baba!"

But before they could take another step, a girl—probably around Malik's age—stormed up and planted herself in front of them, hands on her hips.

"Baba, you don't need to beg these people! We can manage without them!"

***

{Outside The Projection}

The audience watched in stunned silence.

"...This... this was how they met?"

"In a stable? Surrounded by monster shit?"

A quiet chuckle rippled through the group, but it was uneasy.

Because as they watched, they saw him.

Ali Baba.

Her father.

The one Malik would later kill.

That part, no one said aloud. Only whispered.

"Shhh! Don't let her hear!"

As if they even had to warn anyone.

Because Layla wasn't listening.

She was gone. Lost in the scene before her.

Her past self—so young, so angry—storming up, hands on her hips, snapping at her father.

"Baba, you don't need to beg these people! We can manage without them!"

So stubborn... So her.@@novelbin@@

Only now did Layla understand what Safira and Huda felt after seeing themselves on the projection.

It was an indescribable feeling.

God.

Had she really been that foolish?

That hotheaded?

That blind?

And Malik?

He had looked at her without a single clue.

Without a single clue what he would become to her.

Without a single clue how much she would love him.

But she saw it now.

She knew now.

That was it.

That was the moment it happened.

The moment everything changed.

The moment she... fell.

Her heart clenched.

It was the kind of love people scoffed at—love at first sight.

But it was real. It had been so real. It would've been embarrassing to anyone else, seeing their past self—a blushing, stumbling mess.

And yet...

And yet Layla didn't care.

Because he was there too.

Her father.

Alive.

Standing. Breathing. Speaking.

The way he stood. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way his voice carried through the stable. Like he was still here. Like he had never died.

"Haa..."

A sharp breath tore through her, and a hole she had buried deep inside herself ripped open.

Tears blurred her vision, and she couldn't stop them.

"Father…"

Her lips trembled.

"I love you."

And the Layla standing in the present—no longer a girl, no longer that foolish child—began to cry, grieving a man who was already dead.

***

{Inside The Projection}

Malik blinked.

'Baba? So she's his daughter? Damn, he looks too young to be a dad.'

He gave her a once-over—same dark skin, same purple hair, same fire in her eyes.

Then, without a word, he simply walked past her.

"Let's go, Sir. We've got places to be."

She gawked at him, blushing a little, then turned to her father.

"A-Are you serious? You're just gonna—"

Ali Baba sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Layla. Please."

Malik heard the girl huff before she jogged after him.

"F-Fine. I'll lead you."

...

The caravan was camped just outside town, sprawled along the paved road.

Wagons stood in tight rows, people bustled about, preparing for departure, the air thick with the smell of dust, leather, and sizzling meat from cookfires.

Merchants haggled over last-minute deals, handlers shouted at stubborn steeds, and the whole place buzzed with energy—controlled chaos before the long road ahead.

Layla led Malik through the maze of tents and carriages, nodding to familiar faces as they went.

She then stopped in front of a set of well-decorated tents, the kind that meant wealth, power, or both.

"We are the One Thousand Nights!"

Malik raised a brow.

"Interesting name."

Ali Baba, who walked behind him, just chuckled.

"It has meaning. But you'll have to earn the story."

"Fair enough."

Layla pulled open a tent flap, and the three of them stepped inside.

The air was cooler here, scented with incense.

A low table sat in the center, surrounded by plush cushions and couches.

Malik sat down, stretching his legs out, while Ali Baba settled in across from him, adjusting his robes like a man about to get comfortable before a good meal.

And Malik had a feeling he was about to be the meal.