Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

One of the Reds stomped hard on the ground.

"We Paladins are backing Commander Nasir politically."

One of the Blues did the same.

"We Zealots are backing Commander Nasir with gold."

One of the Yellows raised his right hand, silently thanking his fellow guards.

"Our friends provide the people with hope, conviction, and belief. Without them, our cause would've already been lost. So, in your dealings with Commander Nasir, do not forget that."

Malik nodded at him.

"I won't."

The man's words were completely right.

Hope. Conviction. Belief.

Those weren't just ideals.

They were fuel. They were fire. And right now, they were spreading fast.

At first, they were likely quiet. Soft murmurs in dark corners, whispered prayers in sleepless nights. But whispers never stayed whispers for long.

With time, those murmurs swelled, picked up weight, and turned into chants.

Chants? They had a way of turning into battle cries.

So, this wasn't just a war anymore.

No, this was becoming something bigger.

A Holy War.

Or Hell, maybe it already was one.

Maybe it had been from the start, and nobody had the guts to say it out loud.

But soon, they wouldn't need to say it. Everyone would know. Everyone would feel it.

Because when a war stops being about land, power, or politics—when it becomes something sacred—that's when it gets dangerous. That's when people stop counting the cost. That's when they start throwing themselves into the fire, not out of desperation, but out of faith.

And that? That made this war unstoppable.

A war worth fighting.

A war worth dying for.

"...Incredible."

Malik muttered, exhaling slowly.

The weight of it all settled into place.

They weren't just gathering soldiers.

They were building an army of believers.

Fanatical believers who would never back down even when facing certain death.

"Seriously incredible."

Malik didn't even meet Nasir, but he had already grown to respect the man.

Such a seemingly simple decision led to such results. He had no proper words for it.

Seeing that, one of the Blue, standing with his arms behind his back, added:

"The Paladins and we Zealots, as you now know, give different types of aid."

Malik turned his head slightly, waiting for him to continue.

"And yet..."

The guard murmured, almost like he was ashamed.

"We cannot give what is most important. The... the..."

A pause.

"The blood of men."

His words hung in the air, heavy.

Malik didn't reply.

Didn't need to.

Because he understood exactly what that meant.

After all, that was what mattered most.

What won wars.

Not banners.

Not speeches.

Not even faith.

Blood.

The blood of men willing to fight, to kill, to die.

And that was something these two militias, for all their grand ideals, hesitated to spill themselves.

"That, I WILL give."

Malik gave the guards a final nod, something halfway between gratitude and understanding, before stepping past them into the tent.

The interior was… surprising.

For all the extravagance outside—the gold, the banners, the overwhelming display of power—the inside was bare.

Functional.

Simple.

A stark contrast.

No ornate tapestries, no jewels embedded in the tent's cloth, no signs of indulgence.

Cushioned couches lined the edges of the space, but they weren't being used.

A large wooden table dominated the center, its surface covered in maps, scrolls, and hastily scribbled documents.

A few daggers were stabbed into it, pinning down marked areas—territories, battle plans, locations of interest.

And surrounding it?

The command.

Generals. Strategists. Veterans.

All of them turned, their eyes locking onto Malik.

It was a unified stare.

Not the casual curiosity of soldiers, no; this was intentional.

A test.

They wanted to see how he'd react.

If he'd hesitate.

If he'd crack.

Malik, completely unimpressed, stepped forward anyway.

Pressure didn't work on the dead.

At the far end of the table, standing like a man who owned the space, was Nasir.

The same man who had roared his speech just a bit earlier today.

A man with piercing blue eyes, a long, unkempt beard, and shoulder-length hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be black or white. And right in the middle of his forehead was a weird, stubborn patch of dirt—like he'd been smacking his head against the ground for a few years straight and just gave up trying to clean it off.

He stood like a king, but not the soft, spoiled kind drowning in luxury.

No.

He had the look of a warrior.

A man who clawed his way into power, whose authority had been earned through fire, blood, and survival.

Standing among his gathered officers?

Safira was unmistakable, but she wasn't alone in that.

Duban.

He was a man who could not be missed.

Before, Malik saw him as a prince, but now?

Like himself, the kid had grown.

Broader shoulders, stronger stance.

A man now standing amongst men.

He'd probably been through so much that it made him grow up even more than he already had.

But still, the fire in his blue eyes hadn't dimmed.

If anything, it burned even hotter.

Though Malik couldn't exactly see him, he knew that his gaze had latched on to him the moment he entered.

Duban wasn't the only one.

Again, everyone was watching.

Waiting for him to—

"So!"

Nasir's expression split into a grin.

He opened his arms, voice rich with amusement.

"The man who saved my son."

Malik dipped his head, holding a hand to his second heart.

"Alive and breathing."

Barely.

Before Nasir could say another word, Duban rushed forward. Fast, closing the distance between them in seconds. His expression alight with relief.

"M—"

Malik's hand snapped up, covering Duban's mouth before he could say it.

Before he could speak his name.

A silence fell over the tent.

The generals tensed, their hands hovering near their weapons.

Safira had done the same.

Nasir's brow lifted slightly.

Duban froze, eyes wide.

Malik held his gaze, his grip firm but not cruel.

The unspoken message was clear:

"Shut up, kid."

After a long second, realization dawned in Duban's eyes.

He wasn't stupid.

He put the pieces together fast.

The cloak. The blindfold. The way Malik stood differently.

He got it.

So, instead of fighting it, Duban slowly nodded.

In response, Malik released his hold, then, with the smoothest transition possible, smirked and ruffled Duban's hair like he was some kid.

"Glad to see you healthy, little prince~."