Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

The preacher was a middle-aged man, his robes loose, his face weathered by the Shams.

"You cannot claim moral superiority when asking for support, but then moral equivalence to excuse your crimes!"

He continued, pointing a finger at the sky as if condemning the heavens themselves.

"This city bleeds! It gasps! And who, I ask, is to blame? Ah! 'The Twelvers,' they say! The ones who control us. But I say no! You might wonder—if not them, then who? Ah! The rebels! They wish to free us, you say? But I ask you this:"

He let the words sit, let them settle in the air.

"When has a fire ever saved a house?"

"When has a sword ever mended a wound?"

The crowd nodded, faces grim. Others turned away, muttering.

"They tell you—'We fight for you!' But do you eat better than before?"

His hands swept over the gathered people, calloused palms open, as if he was daring them to answer.

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

"Do you drink cleaner water than before? Do you sleep softer at night? Do you wake with lighter burdens?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

Again, no one spoke.

He laughed.

It wasn't a joyful sound.

It was the kind of laugh that came from hunger.

The kind that had long since lost its humor, twisted into something more bitter than bile.

"They call themselves 'saviors,' yet your pockets grow lighter. Your homes emptier. Your bellies hollower. They slit a man's throat and call it justice! They burn your roof over your head and call it liberation!"

His voice rose, hard as steel.

"Tell me—if you break a starving man's chains, yet do not feed him, is he free? If you pull the knife from a wounded man's gut but leave the wound to fester, have you saved him?"

Malik sighed slowly, arms crossing over his chest.

Of course, his "break" could never be peaceful.

Apparently, a war raked the city.

News to him. He had heard nothing. But that wasn't surprising.

The only one he actually spoke to these past months was the owl circling high above.

Still listening, Malik's mind wandered, drifting back through time.

Naser's kid—Duban.

What the Hell had happened to him? Where did he stand in all this mess?

If he was being honest, after that battle was over, after his blade stopped singing, Malik hadn't spared the boy a single thought. Not in any of his million blinks. Not once.

That truth sat bitter on his tongue.

Had Duban even made it? Malik didn't know. Couldn't say.

The last time he'd seen him, the kid was bleeding out, barely clinging to the world.

But… high chance he survived. The village had healers, good ones. Some of the best he'd ever seen. Not because they were naturally gifted or blessed—no, nothing like that.

They were good because they had to be.

A blessing born from sad circumstances.

Too many men, too many boys, had been cut down, crushed, broken in that crawling war.

The kind of war that didn't have banners waving in the wind, no heroic last stands, no glory—just a steady, rotting death.

One that left behind widows, orphans, and those too injured to fight but too angry to stop.

And a war like that? It bred healers just as much as it bred killers.

Judging by the banners all over the place, Nasir Al-Sultan was involved in this war.

If Duban was still breathing, then whatever war was brewing in this city, he was at the center of it.

...How unfortunate.

Out of all places Malik just had to end up in here.

Fate really was a bitch.

***

{Outside The Projection}

"Look at him, acting like some farm boy who's never seen a city before!"

"If that stuns him, I'd love to see his face when he lays eyes on the pyramids in the Holy Kingdom!"

"Hah! He'd probably drop dead on the spot. Think they were built by God 'Himself.'"

"Poor guy's never seen anything taller than a minaret."

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...?

Wait.

They were just—

The ground. They were on the ground. Unconscious.

But now—

Now they were standing. Talking. Joking. Watching.

No one noticed. No confusion. No questions. No dread.

...They had already forgotten.

How?

How was...

the...

crowd...

back...

up...

ag... ain?

...

...

...

"Ahahahahaha!"

A knowing laugh rippled through them.

They never expected they'd see their Sultan's eyes go wide like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.

It was fun.

"You laugh..."

Another interjected, rubbing his beard.

"But can you blame him? The first time I saw the towers of Ash-Sarim, I felt like an ant beneath a mountain."

A few murmurs of agreement spread through them.

The city was just an average, developed one—sure. But for someone like Malik?

It might as well have been another realm.

They didn't clown on his reaction for long, however.

Their mood shifted when the preacher's words came into focus.

"Anyone know him?"

"No, he's probably just some street orator."

A low whistle escaped from one of them.

"Whoever this man is, he's got a silver tongue."

Someone let out a dry chuckle.

"The Sultan's sure getting a Hell of a welcome. Bet he wishes he'd stayed in the desert."

"Oh, no doubt. But still, I really want to know, who's this man?"

"Eh. Doubt he's someone important."

"Skilled ones pop up all the time, screaming about this or that."

"This one just happens to be about a war."

"Wait—wait—war? What war?"

One of them asked, glancing around.

"What the Hell is he talking about?"

Another rolled her eyes.

"Were you sleeping while he spoke?"

"He didn't state it outright, but the Twelvers' militia are fighting some group of 'rebels.'"

"Why wasn't this public knowledge?"

"That's what I'm wondering."

An old man muttered.

"I haven't heard a damn thing about a war."

"If it's a war even we don't know about..."

The scarred woman mused.

"Then someone's keeping it quiet."

A few nods followed that.

The idea of a war—one big enough to shake a city like this, yet quiet enough that most of them hadn't heard whispers—didn't sit well.

Most of them already guessed who was responsible, but none dared to voice it out, preferring their heads to be attached to their necks.

"Just watch."

Nasir said simply, eyes still on Malik.

"This man will explain it to him."

And so, they kept watching, now with more interest than before.

While they did so, a particular group in the crowd felt like the world was flipped on its head. For the first time, it wasn't because of Malik. No. Rather, it related to an unintentionally funny character.

It was THE dumbass king himself.

"Wait. Wait. Why's he so quiet?"

Heads were turned. Eyes had narrowed.

Why?

Because THE dumbass—the one everyone figured would be running his mouth the loudest—wasn't saying a damn thing.

He was just… staring.

Silent as a grave, eyes locked onto the projection like he'd just seen a ghost.

"Oi. What's with you?"

His fellow dumbass nudged him.

"..."

No response.

Another waved a hand in front of his face.

"..."

Nothing.

"He died, it looks like."

"Somebody bring out the shroud."

That got a few chuckles, but unease was settling in now.

It wasn't like him.

The man talked so much, you'd think silence was poisonous.

Yet here he was, still as a statue, lips slightly parted, gaze unreadable.

"The Hell are you looking at?"

One of them pressed.

This time, THE dumbass blinked.

And that was when they saw it.

Not fear. Not shock. Something deeper.

The kind of look a man displayed when something clicked.

When truth was lodged in his chest so deep, he knew he wouldn't be pulling it out.

"Father."

He muttered, almost to himself.

That was all he said.

But it was enough.