Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

Chapter 341: Forgotten History

***

{Outside The Projection}

…Huh.

They were right to feel suspicious then.

They were right to call him a cursed snake.

Malik knew him to be a bastard from the beginning.

More importantly, why was this not written in their history books?

Did everyone decide to just ignore this entire event to make Malik look worse or something?

And MOST importantly—most very fucking importantly—the bastard knew Malik through the Former Sultan?!

Of course he did.

Of course, he was the damned reason.

That man was obsessed with Malik, choosing him as his successor despite not telling him, grooming him in secret, or at least trying to. He likely watched his every move, studied him even back there, when he dropped the hammer on the snake.

It was obvious why he gave the snake such information.

Cyrus was training Malik, or perhaps testing him, taking over Fate’s job.

They all hated how logical it sounded and how deeply it made sense.

The man was annoying, honestly.

But the hall didn’t sit on that thought for long.

Not even on Malik’s final words, which, if spoken by anyone else, would’ve been the kind of thing that’d be seen etched on a tomb or shouted in a rebellion’s last stand.

No.

Their eyes shifted.

Zafar.

That was where the tension built.

His return had taken up all the oxygen in the room, and even now, they didn’t know what to say to him.

Because he looked… different, and it wasn’t just the missing smirk, the stiffness in his shoulders, the look in his eyes.

He acted differently.

Zafar, once the people’s hope, their hero, the Coalition’s loudest mouth… knelt.

Knelt to the “Villain.”

To Malik.

It shattered something in their heads, something they hadn’t realized was fragile.

They couldn’t process it yet.

Zafar, meanwhile, was away from their fragility, both literally and metaphorically, stood alone under the projection’s and the Golden Throne’s glow, bathed in the shimmer of everything he once claimed to stand against, his head bowed, one hand over his heart, the other clenched at his side, shaking—not from fear, but from something close to peace.

And he smiled… just a little.

He’d finally stopped pretending.

Was it sudden?

They didn’t know; couldn’t really say.

In the last seven days alone, Zafar had flipped and flopped more than a fish tossed on hot sand, righteous, angry, betrayed, confused, desperate, then furious again.

Progress and regression in a constant cycle.

But now he looked stable.

Now, he looked like he meant it.

And now the hall finally felt like maybe they could respect him for it.

It wasn’t everyone, of course; many weren’t mature enough to ignore, or at least lessen the impact of their first impression of him, as well as his constant and repetitive moments of annoyance… moments of complete idiocy.

Zafar didn’t expect otherwise, and he didn’t care either way.

He hadn’t come here for them or their opinions.

Malik was the one he knelt towards.

Only him.

And if he told him to stop or leave, then he’d do so.

But the others? They could bark until judgment day; he would not budge.

His home was here now…

As much as it annoyed the hall, annoyed Layla, Huda, Safira, Noor, Duban, and Dunya, but not Faqir, he knew himself to be worse, once known only as the King of Dumbasses, and of course, as much as it most annoyed the two brothers, whose relationship was curretly strained, Zafar was here to stay.

Their emotions didn’t stay just at ’annoyance,’ however.

The owl of the two simply despised the one who killed his purpose in life, caring not for the emotional journey he went through, his character growth be damned a thousand times over.

The human of the two was much the same, only his emotions held jealousy as well.

Zafar was encroaching on his territory… only he, the Sultan’s Right Hand Man, was to fully kneel before the Golden Throne.

Only him.

Safira didn’t know anything about possessiveness.

She didn’t know just how insane it made people.

Her… condition was nothing.

And if Zafar continued ’encroaching on his territory,’ the hall would lose a lot of life.

Azeem knew how his big owl brother worked better than most.

In the time it’d take Sinbad to put Azeem down, he’d ensure the most damage, and he’d do all he could, absolutely everything, in order to kill that lucky bastard.

It wouldn’t matter if he killed himself to do so…

His Sultan would not be tainted.

***

{Inside The Projection}

That night, the square was empty.

The festival was canceled, and the petals never fell.

Malik stood alone on the same roof, watching the torches burn below.

Though not ’alone’ for long, as a figure visited.

It was Zafar.

Of all people, he came, still bandaged and bruised from their fight.

He stood awkwardly beside Malik.

“…P-People are confused.”

Zafar spoke weakly.

“Some… some think you just overthrew the revolution itself.”

Malik said nothing.

“I know… I know you didn’t. Guess it’s just revenge with you, but it feels like there’s always one more liar hiding behind the last one.”

“…”

Silence.

“…You’re really not going to lead, are you?”

Zafar asked, and Malik finally answered:

“No.”

He scoffed.

“I get that you didn’t get to study this stuff, but you know that’ll cause A LOT of instability for the kingdom, right? Do you not care what happens to the people?!”

“…”

Malik, again, didn’t answer.

Zafar stood near the edge and sighed.

“T-T-Thank you for sparing my family… But that doesn’t mean that I… You… I… I still despise you. I don’t know anything about you, and I don’t want to…”

He looked at the dark sky, his eyes clearing up.

“I’ll kill you.”

Malik nodded.

“You will.”

Clicking his tongue, Zafar jumped down.

“Just you wait! I AM going to do it!”

Malik looked at him go.

“…I can’t fix this city, boy.”

Those words were for himself.

“I just want to stop it from needing another me.”

***

{Outside The Projection}

Watching that scene, Zafar almost wanted to laugh.

Those around him wanted to laugh too.

Hell, maybe even the entire world felt like laughing.

Because wow…

Malik spelled it out for him.

Right there, straight to his face.

He told him.

Told him he “will” kill him.

And Zafar, the proud, loud, naive, and stubborn bastard, didn’t question it.

He didn’t think deeper, just brushed it off like Malik was screwing with him.

Which—yeah, maybe he was, a little.

But the thing was…

Malik meant it.

And it took until now, watching it with his own eyes, in front of this whole damned hall, in front of emperors, kings, shahs, caliphs, generals, rebel leaders—

Now Zafar realized.

And he was speechless.

Absolutely, completely, devastatingly speechless.

***

{Inside The Projection}

The Chancellor’s hidden agenda wasn’t all that hidden.

There was no free lunch in this world, and if there ever was, said free lunch wouldn’t last.

Bastard didn’t help Malik for revenge, justice, or ideology; he helped because he wanted the king’s place. The rebellion was just his method of achieving that.

Perhaps he expected Malik to be taken out in his fight against the king, or perhaps he had assassins ready for Malik in case he won, but neither he nor the assassins expected Malik’s and the king’s strength to be so… well, incredible.

Malik had realized this not-so-hidden agenda early on but played along and kept quiet; he was ready to squash his ambition any time, and now that he did, finally came the end of his plan.

But you see… the thing about tyrants? Snakes?

Those never go down quietly, not even when their people completely turn against them, the chains they forged themselves starting to wrap around their own throats.

The Chancellor tried to act like he was noble about it.

Bowed out to his cell, hands raised, all smiles, and “for the good of the people.”

He said he needed prayer, reflection, a chance to be forgiven, maybe even redeemed.

Bullshit.

Malik knew better.

Because the moment that bastard was sent to the dungeon, three blades were sent for his heart.

Right, assassins.

Those were from the Hashashin faction, a militia of Twelvers.

Poison laced their daggers, the same poison that had killed Malik not long ago.

One even had runes drawn across her body, one of self-destruction, which meant she’d been prepared for this for years, and had come here expecting death, perhaps even out of her own violation, as retribution for what Malik had done to her brothers in Nasir Al-Sultan.

It didn’t matter.

Because before they even reached the hall of Malik’s chambers, he already knew of them.

He sat, calm, staring into the eyes of his owl.

Black tilted his head.

Malik just nodded.

No one even noticed the existence of those assassins.

They were gone… just like that, but of course, it didn’t stop there.

These assassins were only a little distraction before the main event.

By dawn, hours before the execution, word had spread:

The Chancellor invoked the Rite of Continuance.

It was a desperate move.

An ancient one, rarely, if ever, used.

Basically, it was asking Aether itself to absolve you in front of everyone.

But you’d need to prove yourself to it, prove yourself worthy of life.

And that would be done in battle.

Indeed, the Chancellor was asking Malik for a duel.

If he won, and the Light responded, he was pure, allowed to live.

In their history books, there was a time when a damned king had stepped down when the Rite deemed the prisoner worthy.

But there was a catch, of course.

If the Light didn’t answer the bastard…

He wouldn’t just be condemned.

His legacy would be erased.

Forgotten.

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