Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

Oh, how he wished for an answer... an answer that he would never be given.

Behind him, the murmurs had barely begun to die down when the same particularly well-spoken group of old Magi threw in their two coppers.

A man stroked his beard of silver, his eyes fixed on Malik as if seeing something long lost.

"The Sultan unknowingly followed our Origin's teachings... He did the impossible."

Beside him, the scarred woman sighed deeply, crossing her arms.

"Impossible doesn't begin to describe it. We cheated. Had Holy Relics. Tools to keep our minds from unraveling. You all did, didn't you?"

Her amber eyes swept over the crowd, challenging them to deny it.

Those who met her gaze nodded one by one, not shameless enough to take her up on that challenge.

"The Endless Hourglass..."

Finding this conversation's direction interesting, Azeem decided to participate, scaring half the crowd silent in the process.

"I turned it over every time I felt myself slipping. It gave me a sense of rhythm, a feeling that time was still moving properly."

Noor lowered a hand, fingers brushing over her throne's wood.

"My most prized relic was Pilgrim's Steps. Comfortable shoes. They counted every step I took. After ten thousand steps, a 'one' would be added directly in my mind. It was too simple, but that was enough. It reminded me of movement."

Roya tapped the hilt of her curved dagger, which rested lightly against her hip, hidden beneath her white robes.

"Mine was Moonlit Compass. Even when I was blind, half alive, my body always knew which way was forward."

Layla, still sniffling, lifted a trembling hand.

"Silver Lattice. It hummed when I was in danger of losing myself. Kept me awake. Kept me… me."

Huda and Safira nodded in unison, their voices overlapping as they shared their relic:

"Star-Kissed Mirror."

Seeing that Huda was still lazing around, Safira proceeded to explain:

"It reflected our states, reminded us of our existence. Sure, it sounds like any other mirror, but this one doesn't need a light source."

After her words reached an end, more names spilled forth, like sacred verses being recited before an unseen fire.

"Weeping Pearl."

"Phoenix Feather."

"Ink of Forgotten Names."

"Lantern of the First Dawn."

Each one had kept them sane.

Had held them together when the void tried to unravel them thread by thread.

And yet, Malik had endured without one.

The only exception? Solomon.

One of their Origin's Roots.

The first to speak of the Edge—the first, presumably, to be accepted by it.

Other than him, Malik stood alone.

"I..."

Zafar, the only one to have touched even a fraction of Malik's time, sighed.

"I had The Saint's Echo."

He admitted, rubbing his jaw.

"Every time I was about to break, it reminded me of the world, of dreams, of nightmares. Kept me from forgetting sound itself."

The silver-bearded man nodded approvingly.

"A fine relic. A rare one."

Then, his gaze flickered back to Malik, burning with something above reverence.

"But you... my Sultan. You walked through it all with nothing."

"..."

"..."

"..."

A silence fell over the hall a third time.

No one had words for it.

There were simply no words for what their Sultan had done.

***

{Inside The Projection}

A bonfire.

That was the first thing Malik saw.

Massive. Roaring. A pillar of flame that clawed at the void above, turning the darkness into something alive.

The fire didn't burn orange—it burned white. Blinding. Seething. Its light stretched out in long, writhing shadows.

And beside it…

A tree.

It was gargantuan.

It was twisted. Gnarled.

Its bark was black, not like charred wood, but like something slick—wet, as if it had been bathed in oil. Its roots dug into the ground, burrowing deep.

Malik didn't know its name.

He had never seen it before.

And yet, the moment his eyes landed on it, a name surfaced in his mind.

Zaquum.

The cursed tree of the Jahanam.

A thing of legend. Of nightmare. Of Hellfire.

Its roots buried in the marrow of the dead. Its fruit said to birth only suffering.

And there, right beside it—like an afterthought...

'What?'

A hut.

Small. Crooked. Built from old, splintered wood that looked as though it had been standing long before the first stone of civilization had ever been laid.

Though confused, Malik didn't hesitate.

He had died.

He had burned.

He had walked beyond life itself.

What was left to fear?

The door hung open, just slightly.

A silent invitation.

Malik accepted that invitation.

Inside, the air was still, yet it was not empty.

Before a plain wooden table sat a figure.

A figure unlike any he had ever seen.

It sat on a throne...

A throne of similarly splintered wood.

This being was entirely black, its form void-like, as if it absorbed the very light around it.

Its eyes, by contrast, were stark white, glowing faintly in the dimness.

No mouth, no nose—just those luminous eyes watching him as he stepped in.

The being lifted a hand and moved it to the left—slow.

It didn't speak. It didn't need to.

The gesture was simple.

SIT.

There was no throne waiting for him. Just a stool.

The kind of seat meant for a man who worked with his hands, not a king.

A king Malik was not, and so, he sat without a word.

From somewhere unseen—somewhere that should not exist—the being produced a small clay cup. No flourish. No Spell Weaving. Just a simple, practiced motion.

A dark liquid filled the cup, its source similarly unseen.

The scent was rich and strangely smoky.

...Tea.

Not some mystical elixir. Not blood or ichor. Just tea.

The cup slid across the table toward him.

Malik took it.

Stared at it.

Drank.

The warmth settled deep in his bones.

It was good.

"..."

"..."

"..."

They sat in silence for a few seconds before it spoke.

"I LIVE HERE."

Its voice was neither deep nor high, neither male nor female.

"THIS BLACK EXPANSE OF REFUSE, ROT, RUIN IS MY HOME."

Malik remained silent, listening.

"THIS GUTTER IS MY BEDROOM. I BATH WITH GRIME EVERY MORNING... LIKE YOU."

The being tilted its head.

"I SEE YOU, ABANDONED. UNFIT, UNLOVED, TOSSED ASIDE, AND IGNORED... LIKE ME."

It tilted its head further, nearing ninety degrees.

"YOU ARE MADE OF EVERYTHING I NEED. YOU ARE EVERYTHING I WANTED. I WILL TELL THE DEPRAVED WHERE WE ARE. LAY YOU ON A BLACK BED OF FLOWERS AND WE WILL GNAW THROUGH YOUR SPLINTERS. YOU WILL BE RECLAIMED."

Malik did not react.

He merely nodded, acknowledging the words but offering nothing in return.

The being chuckled. A hollow sound, yet not without amusement.

It stood and stepped into another room.

When it returned, it carried something wrapped in green cloth.

With careful hands, it unwrapped it, revealing a weapon unlike any Malik had ever seen.

A double-bladed, curved sword.

"THIS IS YOUR REWARD... A PERFECT COPY OF THE LEGENDARY ZULIFIQAR."

The being placed the weapon before him.

"FOR THE FASTEST JINN TO REACH THE DEPTHS OF MY HOME."

It glowed.

"FOR THE JINN WHO ONLY TOOK TEN YEARS."

***

{Outside The Projection}

Everyone in the hall felt dead—stifled. Suffocated beneath something "unseen." Wrong.

As was usual, they had all been watching. Every single one of them. Eyes locked onto the projection, unable to tear themselves away. But now—now, after what they had just seen—no one dared to breathe, never mind look.

The moment Malik had sat before that thing. That being. That void wrapped in human shape. The moment it had turned its gaze upon him…

Something inside them had shattered.

Dread. Pure, unfiltered, absolute.

Their heads immediately snapped downwards.

It didn't matter that this was something from the past.

It didn't matter that they were safe outside the projection.

It didn't matter that Malik had been the one facing it, not them.

It didn't matter.

The weight of that gaze had reached them all the same.

If this was the reaction of those strong, then what of the mortal?

Most of those outside the hall had collapsed.

Sure, all on Fam Iblis innately had Aether Cores, but they were dormant.

It could not protect them.

Some outright fainted, their minds unable to comprehend what they had witnessed.

Others fell to their knees, gasping, heaving, like they had just surfaced from drowning.

Even the Magi among them—warriors, seekers, killers, survivors hardened by the world—struggled to remain standing straight.

Zafar.

The "hero" himself.

Even he wasn't immune.

His fingers twitched at his side.

A slight motion, barely noticeable, but it spoke volumes.

He was steady, sure—but only barely.

His mind raced, running in loops he couldn't quite finish.

"How…?"

His voice was a whisper, not meant for anyone, yet it reached everyone all the same.

"How did he survive that?"

No one answered. Because, again, no one knew.

They had all endured the Land of Dying Light. The Unseen Valley.

They had all walked its cursed paths, battled its illusions, withstood its whispers.

But none of them—not a single one—had ever faced that.

...Was it the embodiment of Corruption? Depravity?

They didn't know. They didn't even want to know.

They were not cats; their curiosity would kill.