Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

"Some tragedies don't shock you anymore—they just remind you of what you already knew."

That was, more or less, what was on everyone's mind at that moment.

It all felt like déjà vu.

A reflection of Malik's... talk with the past Layla.

Sure, and again, it wasn't as unhinged, but...

It was the same.

Layla's fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm.

She didn't know what to think.

Her husband had once made her father a promise.

A promise that he would never intentionally blink again.

But now?

Now he did.

Yes, technically, he didn't kill himself.

Technically, he didn't ask Black to do it.

But that didn't change the fact that he raised his neck.

That he had offered himself up.

That he had agreed to die.

In his final moments, Malik had called himself a hypocrite.

Layla agreed.

He was a hypocrite.

Not a filthy one... never that, but a hypocrite nevertheless.

Safira would've thought the same.

Should've thought the same.

But she couldn't think at all.

Her mind was still frozen.

Stuck in the same loop.

A nightmare made manifest.

Because she now knew.

Now she understood.

Why he hid from her.

Why he wore that cloak until the very end.

She was the reason.

***

{Inside The Projection}

"Haaaaa—!"

Malik gasped awake.

A sharp, rattling breath, like he had been drowning and only just now clawed his way back to the surface.

For a second, all he knew was pain.

No—not pain. The memory of it.

His body wasn't hurting anymore, but his mind? His nerves? They were still screaming. Still convinced he was bleeding out, still stuck in that moment.

His hand shot up, fast, pressing against his neck.

His fingers dug in, feeling for the wound.

Nothing.

Smooth skin. No blood. No tear.

His chest rose and fell, breath shaky, uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs.

His body still thought he was dead.

It took a moment—too long—for his brain to catch up.

...Right.

He had blinked.

Again.

Malik let out a long sigh, his hand falling away from his neck.

The relief was instant. But so was something else.

An unusual something.

That reaction of his?

That full-body panic?

It shouldn't have happened.

He had gotten used to this.

He had done this an unfathomable number of times.

Had woven back over and over and over until his brain stopped caring.

But now?

Now he was shaken.

His mind had regressed.

The little break he had taken from constantly killing himself had dragged him back from the Depravity he was heading towards.

It was a good thing for his mental state, but...

Malik's jaw clenched.

'Annoying.'

He didn't like it.

It made him feel things he didn't quite appreciate.

'...Whatever.'

Malik shook his head, forcing his breathing to even out, and finally looked around, taking in his surroundings—

"Wait."

And froze.

The stone walls.

The massive iron gates.

The long line of people stretched out in front of him.

"..."

Had he reset before he even entered the city?

Seriously?

That far back?

Malik's brows furrowed as he took a hesitant step forward, then another.

He walked right past the queue, straight up to the guards at the gate.

They looked at him.

Neither reached for their weapons.

Instead, one of them gave him a slight nod.

"Welcome back, Sir Malik."

Malik blinked.

Oh.

Or not.

He exhaled through his nose, instantly piecing it together.

It seemed like he had returned to the time just after Fariq's near-death debacle.

Interesting.

The curse's Owner wanted him involved in this war.

Why?

Malik didn't know.

Still, it didn't matter.

What did matter was that this wasn't just about the past anymore.

It was about survival.

His mind snapped into focus.

No more mistakes. No more slip-ups. No more fucking brooding.

If survival meant playing the game differently?

So be it.

He'd play to their hearts' content.

...

A man moved through the city streets, his figure wrapped in a white cloak, the hood pulled low over his face.

People watched him.

Whispered.

Stared with curiosity, their gazes locking onto him as he passed.

Why?

His eyes.

Or rather—his lack of them.

A strip of cloth was tied around his head, covering them entirely.

And yet, he walked like he could see everything.

That man was Malik.

He could barely see anything.

The cloth was light, sure—thin enough that faint shadows bled through—but it wasn't enough. Not to move through the streets without tripping like a damn fool.

So he relied on Aether.

It curled through the air, through the streets, through the people, and he focused on it, feeling the world around him instead of seeing it.

Shapes. Heat. Movement.

In the beginning, it was weird as all Hell. Disorienting to the extreme.

Like trying to read something while eavesdropping on a muffled conversation underwater, in total darkness at that.

Though, it wasn't too bad, at least for him.

By the time he neared Nasir's base, he had already started to get the hang of it.

And the reason for this whole little blind act?

Safira, of course.

If she saw him—if she recognized him—she'd lose her mind again.

He couldn't have that.

Needless to say… even after all of what happened, he could still run.

Escape this city, disappear into the world, and never look back.

But that option was gone if peace was a necessity.

His face had been seen.

People knew him now.

And unless he was willing to slaughter half the damn population, he had to stay.

Had to fight.

Because the enemy would never leave him alone.

Not now, not ever.

Sure, Safira could still figure it out. See past the disguise.

But he had made sure that it would take her some effort.

And, to be fair, he looked way different than the last time they saw each other.

His voice was deeper too.

If he used to look like a prince going undercover, now he looked like that prince's way-too-young dad.

So yeah, the 'effort' wasn't really on his looks.

It was on something else.

The Paladins he raided?

They had been... dealt with.

The moment they woke up from their little nap, they were given a simple, clear warning:

"Never mention my existence to anyone."

They got the message loud and clear.

If they didn't?

If they let his name slip, even once?

Well... he'd make sure they never spoke again.

Aside from them, he had no one to worry about.

Faqir was trustworthy. He wouldn't babble.

The general populace had no access to Safira.

So, even though many knew of his existence, how or even why would they tell her?

They had no reason to.

Neither did their little spies.

As everyone knew, those types went to the highest bidder, and from what Malik saw, Safira certainly wasn't that.

He was safe... for now, at least.

Which meant there was only one thing left to do.

Put on a show.

Act like a man who was long gone.

***

{Outside The Projection}

The projection flickered, and the crowd held its breath.

Again, not a single whisper dared to break the silence.

They didn't even seem to react to his insane level of Aether control.

Perhaps they had gotten used to his incredibly absurd mental feats.

Or, most likely, their minds were busy with a single word.

A question to Safira.

"Why?"

Why hadn't she told them about his... disguise?

It was not like she lied, but still—why not bring it up?

Safira stood there, mimicking the projection, eyes now locked on Malik.

She looked hollow, more so than ever before. Entirely emptied out.

All the fire, all the rage, had burned away and left only ashes.

The crowd shifted.

Some exchanged glances, hesitant, unsure.

Others just stared, waiting, expecting something—anything—from her.

But she didn't speak.

Did she know?

Had she known it was Malik all along?

Had she seen through the disguise?

Or had she only realized after?

The Ten Commandment had made it clear—she only figured it out when he killed her people.

But her words, her rage, her accusations… they painted a different story.

So, which was the truth?

As if in response, Safira finally moved.

She lifted her head, just slightly, and then—

"Ahahhah—hah—ahahhah!"

She laughed.

A dry, bitter sound.

A laugh with no joy in it, no humor.

"You... you think I knew?"

The crowd stilled.

Safira shook her head, a tired smile curling at the edges of her lips.

"Ha… yeah. Yeah, you're right. I knew. I knew. Took me a few days, sure, but I knew. Some kid came running up, all excited, showing off his brand-new dagger, babbling about him. And what did I do? I smile, nod, act like I didn't hear a damn thing. Like I didn't know. Hell, I made myself not know. Convinced myself. Lied. And lied. And lied. And lied and lied and lied and lied AND LIED!"

"..."

"..."

"..."

The crowd had no response.

That, somehow, was the worst answer of all.

Unhinged to a level they had never expected.

Her dreaded shame was even more understandable now.

What else would anyone feel when confronted with such a truth?

Faqir wasn't thinking about any of that, however.

He was thinking about one thing and one thing alone.

His family.

What Malik had done did matter.

It mattered a whole lot.

He was very mistaken.

It was THEIR reality.

That only made him feel more grateful.

But it also confused him.

How was his father unhurt when he first returned to them?

How had his older brother stood straight as if no tragedy had played out?

Who healed them?

Faqir understood why they weren't told of what happened; the two likely didn't want to worry them, but still...

Not even a subtle mention?

It was weird.

Very weird.

And, for whatever reason, he believed he'd never get the answer.

***

{Inside The Projection}

Safira was there, staring at the maps, frowning in thought.

She hadn't noticed him yet, too caught up in whatever she was working on.

Malik tilted his head slightly in her direction, the cloth over his eyes hiding whatever expression he might've had.

Staring? Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, there was something heavy in the way he looked at her—something quiet, something worn.

He cleared his throat.

"General Safira!"