Misunderstood Villain Heroines Mourn My Death Chapter 356

[ … words ]

***

{Outside The Projection}

“…It’s time.”

Huda muttered under her breath, watching the just-returned projection.

Finally.

Finally… she was to see it.

Her uncle… fight her brother.

Her uncle… die by her brother’s hands.

And weirdly? She didn’t care, not anymore.

Not after everything she saw.

Not after seeing what Malik went through.

Not after realizing what they all… never knew.

He could drop dead right here, and she wouldn’t bat an eye.

But… even with all that… one thing didn’t sit right.

No.

Something was off.

The history books were wrong.

This… this wasn’t how it went down.

Or at least that wasn’t the entire story.

She knew her brother… way too late, true, but still…

Huda knew who he was.

Malik… after all he’d been through…

After walking through fire, blood, death…

He wouldn’t just assassinate Cyrus in public.

Malik had to have fought him somewhere hidden.

Somewhere quiet, private, away from prying eyes.

No way he’d have ended what was once his one goal in life like that.

Besides, it wouldn’t make sense for him to do that if he didn’t want to be Sultan.

Killing him in front of everyone like that ensured he’d be the new Sultan.

So then… why?…

Why was this event burned into history like this?

Why was it… so loud?

And why…

Why was the volume titled {The Fall is Here?}

Was it really just because of the Fallen suddenly increasing in number back then? Attacking the Holy City? Giving Malik the perfect chance to assassinate his enemy?

Or was it something else?

Was there more…?

Her gut said there was.

Her gut screamed that something didn’t add up.

Cyrus… Cyrus fighting the Fallen before Malik came for his head…

How did it connect with everything they knew?

None of this felt random.

And as the projection revealed a new scene—

As the world around them settled after the chaos—

Huda leaned forward, her eyes burning and hands tightening.

More curious than ever.

***

{Inside The Projection}

The Holy City.

Malik stood there, alone.

Sinbad, his forever-close little brother, wasn’t with him.

No companions either, just himself.

His gold eyes scanned the horizon, flat, and yet—

Even he couldn’t deny it; the place was… breathtaking.

Built on the edge of an oasis, the city shimmered under the desert Shams, where water reflected against white marble walls, palm trees curled over streets, and clean stone roads wound into the heart of the city.

But nothing—not the gold, the green, the blue of the water, not even the towering churches, mosques, and temples—nothing could compete with the Holy Palace.

It wasn’t a building.

It was a mountain wearing marble.

A hill-sized structure, so massive it crushed everything beneath its shadow. Tower after tower, dome after dome, all built atop one another until it stretched beyond what mortal eyes could fully process.

It loomed, a God that refused to sit down.

Malik stood, hands behind his back, staring.

Cyrus.

The man he came for.

The Sultan of this Holy City.

…Sinbad’s killer.

Finding him would be annoying.

…

Malik’s boots tapped against stone roads.

His first stop was a white-robed priest.

“Where’s the Sultan?”

The priest smiled.

“Ahh… His Majesty? Oh, may the heavens preserve him! He is the beacon of righteousness! A true son of the divine! A guide for the lost! Always tending to his people’s needs. Truly, he’s a leader like no other.”

Malik blinked once and moved on.

Next, he found a merchant at the spice market.

“The Sultan?”

The merchant grinned, tossing a date to a child.

“May his reign be eternal! A fair man! Lowered taxes this year, yes, yes! Even opened up the northern trade routes. Look around you! See these roads? His work. His love for the people.”

Malik’s eyes twitched a little.

“…Right.”

Onward.

A mother nursing her child beneath the shade.

“The Sultan?”

She adjusted her veil, smiling softly.

“…I was widowed last year. His people came. Gave me food, water, and shelter. Even work. There’s no Sultan like him. None. He sees the weak.”

Malik stared a second longer than necessary.

Confused as he was… he didn’t reply.

Next, he found a preacher on the corner, yelling praises.

“Bless His Majesty! Bringer of stability! Holder of the Eternal Law! Shepherd of the Faithful! None rule as justly as he! The Shepard guides the sheep, and God guides the Shepard. The Shepherd walks down the righteous path through God’s providence!”

Malik stepped right past without a word.

Until finally, he found someone… a beggar.

An old man, legs shriveled beneath him, blind in one eye, was sitting against a fountain.

He wore rags, scars, and dust, a man ignored by the world.

There was no chance this man was affected by the same spell as the others.

Malik dropped a gold coin into his bowl.

“Where’s the Sultan this evening?”

The beggar’s milky eye twitched.

Surprisingly… he revealed the same smile as the others.

“Ah… His Majesty keeps a simple routine. Every evening, as the Shams dips, he walks the gardens east of the Holy Palace. That’s around the outer court by the wall… tall palm trees, lined by the canals. He speaks to his people there, stays for an hour, and then returns to the Holy Palace.”

Malik blinked.

“…That simple?”

The beggar nodded.

“Routine keeps a man humble… or so he says.”

Malik tossed him another coin, turned, and walked.

The words kept swirling around in his head, those voices, those praises.

All of them… the same.

A saint.

A savior.

A shepherd.

But Malik knew better.

This wasn’t kindness. No.

This was propaganda at the highest level.

Or…

…Was it?

A cruel whisper slipped into his thoughts.

’…What if it isn’t? What if he really IS good to his people?’

His lips pressed into a thin line.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Cyrus wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart.

No, this was control, his version of it.

A demon with a silver tongue, a serpent wrapped in silk, Theuban but only way, way better, a Sultan who fed his people honey while slaughtering anyone who stood in his way.

The worst kind of monster.

One who looked like a savior.

Killing him wouldn’t just be a tragedy.

It would fracture this city, break its spine, and throw its people into chaos.

And that…

That would destroy any dream Malik had left.

Any dream of being a helper.

A guardian.

A pillar.

His jaw clenched a fraction.

No, no, no…

It didn’t matter.

His Will was iron.

Sinbad’s killer would pay.

No matter the cost.

No matter what dream died with him.

Malik adjusted Spine Splitter on his belt…

And walked.

Step.

Straight toward the gardens.

Step.

Straight toward judgment.

Step.

Straight toward Cyrus.