Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

"RETURN FIRE!"

The archers drew their bows and let loose.

A counter-volley of arrows streaked through the air, whistling toward the unseen enemy.

Following Ali Baba's lead, the Magi in their ranks began to chant, their voices weaving abilities into life.

Death, fire, wind, ice, stone, and every other common element hurtled through the air, striking where the enemy's initial attack had come from, just bombarding the whole area.

"""AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"""

Pained screams resounded and the air shimmered.

The illusion shattered like broken glass, revealing them. The bandits.

An army of them out in the open, some were on the ground, clutching their wounds, some still with bows in hand, others already rushing forward now that their surprise attack had failed.

Ali Baba wasted no time.

"SECOND VOLLEY!"

More arrows shot forward, cutting down the first wave before they even began to close in. Some fell instantly, bodies hitting the sand with a dull thud. But the smarter ones, the ones with a bit of experience, took advantage of the natural terrain.

They used the rocky outcrops for cover, darting between them, shields up, advancing in staggered lines. They thought they were safe... They were wrong.

The traps had been set perfectly.

A few bandits barely had time to react before one of them tripped on a wire, making them eat sharpened wooden spikes that seemingly came out of nowhere.

Their screams were brief—cut off as the stakes impaled them from one side to the next.

Another group ran along a narrow pass, only for a concealed rope to snap taut around their ankles, yanking them off their feet and slamming their skulls against the unforgiving rock.

Many triggered the explosive rune traps, sudden bursts of fire engulfing them in an instant, reducing them to nothing but charred corpses.

All of these deaths had the bandits hesitate, fear creeping into their ranks.

But it didn't stop there. Not allowing them a moment's rest, the caravan's campfires flared to life. Runes had them roar up like beacons in the darkening sky, illuminating the battlefield, revealing just how many of their comrades had fallen.

It was psychological warfare at its finest—showing them the cost of their attack.

And that did the trick. Panic overtook many of them, and they turned, fleeing to wherever. No longer willing to test their luck.

But, unfortunately, others pressed on, determined to reach the camp, bloodlust, desperation, and something beyond that driving them forward.

Though... there were a few dozen at most, marking the caravan's plan an astounding success.

Now, it was time for melee combat.

Malik, who watched them reach striking distance, finally moved.

"Scorched Grace."

Like a demon unleashed, fire erupted from his left hand, his curved sword darkening in his right.

He jumped, flew, and crashed down in the middle of their ranks like a tiny comet, his flames exploding outward, hungry and wild.

Fwoosh—Boom!

The nearest bandits barely had time to scream before they were engulfed. Flesh sizzled, fabric curled and blackened, the acrid stench of burning bodies filling the air.

Their shrieks were drowned out by the sound of steel cutting through flesh as Malik had already begun to move, his speed terrifying.

A bandit lunged, blade aimed for his ribs—Malik twisted, let the sword pass inches from his side, then grabbed the man by the throat.

Fire surged through his palm, golden, skin melted under his grasp, a scream resounded, turning hoarse before stopping entirely.

Malik threw the corpse aside and went deep into their fold, not caring about his Aether.

Watching such carnage unfold, those of the caravan stood frozen for a moment, stunned.

This wasn't the same quiet Malik they had come to know. This was something else entirely—something furious.

A devil cloaked in fire.

Malik ducked low, a hammer missing by a breath, and then came up inside a man's guard, driving his sword into his gut. Not done, he ripped the blade free and let fire consume the gaping wound.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

A dagger-wielding bandit tried to flank him—Malik turned, grabbing the man's wrist mid-strike, then twisted, snapping bone before plunging his sword into his ribs.

Another came from behind—Malik ducked, spun, sent a wave of fire sweeping low.

"UGH!"

The flames caught the bastard's legs, sending him crashing face-first into the sand, screaming as his flesh melted away.

A desperate one with a shield rushed him, trying to bash him back.

Malik let him come, let him commit, then sidestepped at the last moment.

A flick of his wrist and his sword found the gap beneath the man's arm, slicing deep.

A gout of blood sprayed from the wound as the bandit staggered back, eyes wide, disbelieving. Then he crumpled, lifeless.@@novelbin@@

"COME AND DIE!"

The bandits tried to hold, tried to rally, but there was no stopping him.

To them, he was a force of nature, cutting through them like they were nothing.

One by one, they fell. But, unfortunately, that trend didn't last long.

"ATTTAAAAAAAAAACCCCKKKKK!"

A sudden scream. A shadow from above. Then another. Then a dozen.

More bandits arrived, dropping from the cliffs. Ropes, grappling hooks, sheer madness—it didn't matter how they got there, only that they were coming down fast.

'WHERE THE FUCK DID BANDITS GET SUCH EQUIPMENT?!'

With that thought shooting through their minds, the guards finally snapped out of their trance.

So far, they only watched, but the sight of these men had finally shaken them into action.

"HOLD THE LINE!"

Ali Baba bellowed and surged forward, the others following right behind.

Shields slammed together, forming a defensive wall. Swords, spears, axes—everything they had clashed with the enemy.

The area became a true war zone.

Ali Baba spun his staff, cracking a bandit's skull open before sweeping another's legs out from under them, stomping down on their throat before they could scream.

At that exact moment, two more attacked him, but they dropped dead before they could get close, withering to dust.

A guard beside him barely dodged a swinging axe, only to drive his own dagger into the attacker's eye. Another shield bashed an enemy off their feet, while one more hacked down a bandit mid-air before they could even land.

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And Malik? He was still at the front. Still cutting them down. Still burning them alive.

He was everywhere at once. A beast made of fire and blood. He cut. He burned. He broke bones with his bare hands when his sword wasn't fast enough.

And when one tried to run, tried to flee into the night—"Fall."

Malik was faster.

He lunged, driving his sword straight through the last man's spine.

The body jerked, then went still.

Silence.

The battlefield was quiet now.

Only the crackling of dying flames and the distant wind howling through the rocks remained.

Malik stood among the corpses, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his golden eyes bright, burning with fury untamed.

Then, slowly, he raised his left arm. Clenched his fist.

The fire snuffed out instantly.

Triumph.