Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

A flying soul looked away from the two and flew back inside the palace.

It was Malik.

He didn't want to hear any more.

He couldn't bear hearing anything more.

Once inside, above the crowd, or at least a mass of moving flesh that attempted to mimic a crowd but failed miserably, he turned to the floating projection beside him.

[Would you like to end your break? Your life's fifth volume, 'Second Sun,' has its preparations complete.]

A beat.

'Give me another minute.'

Ding!

That stupid, familiar sound repeated, reenacting his first and second 'break.'

Last time, he didn't bother with a 'break.' He wanted to move on...

He needed to move on.

But now...

Now he needed a break.

Malik almost missed seeing that weird Script in his mind's eye, the one that took over everything, repeating the same word, the same damn congratulations in all those lost languages.

Though if he were honest, such a feeling disappeared the moment he returned to this... soul form.

He could feel it once more.

His soul, no, his entire being, was stronger.

Before, he felt like he'd been rebuilt from scratch, but this...

Somehow, it was more. Just more. A lot more. Unfathomably more.

The Divine Rank of his Essence continued to align with his memories.

Now he, too, was a Jinn, a Divine Rank he never imagined reaching before all of... this.

Five days of suffering remained.

Five and he'd be out of here.

Five...

Malik dreaded those days.

Earlier, he claimed that freedom was priceless to him.

But now? ...He could not give an answer.

His Divine Essence was that of Hell.

Jahannam.

That description was inadequate.

It was incredibly and hopelessly inadequate.

The further he Ascended, the more he fell from being human.

Yet... it wasn't all bad.

He realized a truth.

THE truth.

The only one that mattered to him.

Though surprisingly, he didn't feel all that different after realizing it.

It was not like something clicked or shattered or was reborn inside him.

No. It was quiet... only a little heavy. A man staring at a night sky, thinking that it was endless, only to be told, no—it ends, and there's something else beyond it. Something staring back. Something that wants you. Something that wanted him.

Just a day or two ago, he thought himself a vehicle. A character. A stage. A name for a tragedy. A title that could be slotted into any grand tale about war, monsters, revenge, or Corruption.

He thought his pain was the price for someone else's catharsis.

He thought he was a tool.

But now?

Now he knew he was the reason the story existed in the first place.

That was THE truth.

The obvious one.

He was the stopgap.

The patch over a tear in reality.

A soul dragged by the Lady of Time 'Herself'—just so he could stand in the way of something no one else wanted to look at. Something so far gone, so alien, even 'They' shivered at the thought of interacting with it.

IT.

Malik didn't even like thinking about IT.

Even now, after his Embodiment was over, the memory...

The memory wasn't a shape or a scream.

It was the absence of shape. Of voice.

It was wrongness.

IT wasn't a villain. Not a monster. Not even a God.

IT was the silence before sound. The breath before a scream. The thing that waited for the end of the end.

And Malik... Malik was the barrier.

His existence was the lock.

His soul was the seal.

As incredible and unnerving as that might be...

That wasn't even the most shocking part.

What most shocked him was how calm he felt.

Apathy wasn't the reason for that; his fractured mind wasn't either, nor was his insanity.

ITS presence could easily bypass all of that without question.

No. This was a result of his second Embodiment.

In some way, in some form, he'd always walked on its path.

It had been humming under his skin from the very beginning.

Since the day he sat chained on this Golden Throne, looking down at his people.

The other Malik... he... his Embodiment began with Faqir. That dream, his second dream, taught him what such a technique entailed, what it needed, and he subconsciously applied that to his path.

At first, it was clumsy. Because, well, he didn't even know what it truly meant.

Embodying had a clear definition in that bastard's Grimoire, but even then, everyone was different; he had to learn his own Essence himself.

And so, Malik did what he always did, being just... there, picking up the pieces. Living in the wreckage of other people's pain.

But soon, something in that started to stick.

He wasn't just reacting. He was absorbing.

He was becoming.

His choices began to have meaning.

And by the end of it—by the end of the fourth tragedy, his fourth complacency, when blood washed his body and fire danced in his veins—he realized he wasn't Embodying people anymore.

He was embodying his path.

A Dune Guardian walking the path of Blood and Fire.

He didn't know when that Title had taken root. Maybe when he buried... Maybe in the sandstorm. Maybe in his war to save. Maybe when he looked into the eyes of a broken child an unfathomable number of times. Maybe before any of that. But it fit.

He was the guardian of a land soaked in tragedies.

In ruin. In hope. In Sun.

That was his truth.

A guardian in a realm that had no room for mercy.

And yet... he still tried to be merciful.

That was the kicker, wasn't it?

Malik wasn't who he was for his strength. Not his talent. Not even his grief.

He was the Sultan because he tried; he'd be forever remembered as that.

Their Sultan was a man who kept trying, even when it was pointless.

Even after the world spat on his name and torched every piece of joy he clung to...

Malik still stepped forward. He still crawled forward.

Once, his people believed they knew why he fought.

Revenge. Redemption. Glory. Greed. Ambition.

But Malik?

He fought because someone had to.

And now that he floated above them all, his mind broken, he didn't feel rage.

He didn't feel peace either.

He just felt... tired.

It was not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that came when one had walked further than they'd ever thought possible and realized the path still wasn't done.

Malik looked down at the people. His people. His mistakes. His hopes...

And he said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

The story was still being told.

But for the first time...

He knew who the story was about.

It was no longer his truth.

It was theirs.