Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

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{Outside The Projection}

"Ah... man."

A somber voice rang out over the murmurs and whispers of the crowd.

The projection had paused yet the heat of the burning village still lingered in their minds.

"A kid's gonna die again."

The words hung heavy, like a curse spoken too many times.

This... it was an established formula, wasn't it?

Introduce someone to Malik, make him attached, and then end that 'someone' in the most gut-wrenching way possible.

It worked.

It always worked.

Malik seemed to have realized that, thinking of himself as a jinx.

He wasn't the only one to think that.

As unfortunate as it was, that was the truth.

A pitiful one. A sickening one. But a truth nonetheless.

Once was happenstance. Twice was coincidence. Three times was enemy action.

This enemy was fate.

"Of course she will... Every damn time."

A nervous chuckle broke through the grim atmosphere.

"That's fucked up, man. Think it but don't say it."

Someone else nodded slowly.

"How did he suffer this time?"

The question silenced the murmuring.

Because that?

It brought a whole new kind of horror.

People glanced at each other, at the still-fainted Layla, at Safira who was pale as a sheet, staring numbly at the projection.

She hadn't moved since Layla's collapse, lost in her mess of emotions, whatever they were.

"Tch."

One of the older Magi—the 'ones who knew'—crossed his arms just beneath his beard.

"Forget about the Sultan for a second. Let's talk about the real issue here—the conspiracy."

That got people's attention.

A few heads turned, eyes flickering toward him, their curiosity piqued.

"Ali Baba and Madam Layla. Their deaths… it's clear now. They were a necessary part of a bigger plan."

Someone furrowed their brows.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..."

His hand shot out, pointing at the projection where the village burned, at the scene of devastation and loss that had just played before them.

"That fire? It's man-made."

A few of the younger ones scoffed.

"Obviously. The bandits—"

"No. Not the bandits. They were driven off. Those of Yanan. They burned the village."

Silence. A pause just long enough for the smarter ones to start piecing it together. Then—

Soft gasps. Realization dawned, and the murmurs returned:

"No way…"

"It can't be."

"Y-You don't mean—"

But he did.

"Corruption."

The old Magi nodded, cutting off the hesitant words before they could form fully.

"The bandits... or at least the one leading them knows how to Corrupt mortals."

A wave of reactions swept through the crowd. Some recoiled, others stiffened, and even those who had been pretending not to listen suddenly found themselves unable to look away.

Those in the front turned to glance at them, unsurprisingly not surprised. If anything, it looked like they already knew this, even if they hadn't been willing to say it out loud.

Because once they realized that Corruption was just another name for Falling… many truths clicked into place.

"But…"

One of them 'clueless' ones still struggled to bridge the gap.

"What does that have to do with Madam Layla and her father?"

The old Magi shifted his gaze, looking back at the projection as if it held all the answers.

"Those of us who've heard the rumors already have our guesses... the mastermind—the real hand behind all of this—needed them as ingredients."

That word landed hard.

Ingredients.

Not victims. Not pawns. Ingredients.

Back then, there was a common saying—one passed around in failing bars, repeated as though it were fact:

"People from the Dark Continent were Hexblood. Cursed from birth."

It was nonsense, of course. Superstition.

But like many rumors, there was a grain of truth buried beneath the lie.

Because what was true—what people had witnessed, even if they couldn't explain it—was that when they died, something happened.

At the moment of death, their bodies didn't just, well, slump like anyone else's. Instead, the Aether around them would react. Almost as if saying a final farewell.

Now, knowing about their older lineage and the True Sultan, it all made sense.

Their connection to Aether was deeper. Stronger. Closer to the root of it all than anyone else.

And that connection didn't just end when they died.

It synergized.

And here was where it got really twisted—because if that synergy happened around Corrupted Aether…?

Then that Corruption wouldn't just stay in one place.

It would spread.

Wildly.

Uncontrollably.

Like a plague.

Like a fire that never stopped burning.

And if someone knew how to manipulate that process—how to induce Corruption in just the right way...

"Fucking Hell."

Then they wouldn't just be creating a spot of Corruption.

They'd be making a source.

A wound in the world itself.

And that? It was all for one thing.

Forcing Naser's child to move out of the village.

To remove his protection and strip him bare till death embraces him.

That was what this was all about.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

The crowd stared at him, then at each other, the weight of the revelation slowly settling upon them.

A sea of mumbled curses followed.

Calling this a conspiracy was understating it.

Because wow... it brought them a doozy.

But then, before they could even fully process that, someone interrupted:

"Wait!"

This Magi had gone stiff, eyes locked on one of the women around Layla.

"What? What is it?"

"Look. Look next to Safira."

Heads turned. And there, standing in the midst of Layla's camp, was a familiar woman.

A woman who looked exactly like the little girl from the projection.

Pale, black hair and purple eyes.

A combination that spoke of a... tough union.

There was no doubt about it.

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This was the child Malik had saved. But of course, older. Stronger. Wiser.

Alive.

"No way."

"That's—?"

"That's her."

"She survived."

The woman in question didn't care for their gazes, her eyes never leaving Layla's form.

She knew they'd realize sooner or later and didn't care enough to introduce herself.

This sham of an execution, and everyone involved in it, could die for all she cared.

The crowd didn't mind her lack of hello.

They didn't exactly care for her but for what she represented.

Malik had lost every child he tried to protect.

Every single one.

But this one?

She had lived.

A defiance against the fate that haunted him.

Maybe, just maybe, this time… things would be different.

It just might not be a misunderstanding anymore.