Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 115

Chapter 115: Which One?
The area near their target was a dead zone—plain and simple. Just one street over, life carried on like normal, but here? It was like the village itself had given up.

Sand clung to the cracked streets, piling up in doorways, blown in by winds that whispered through shattered windows. Not a soul lingered. No stray felines. No beggars. Nothing. The silence was thick, only broken by the occasional rattling of some forgotten sign.

Maybe the locals knew something. Maybe they could feel it. Like a wound on the village’s skin. A cancer. And no one wanted to get too close. Especially not at night.

Malik, the priest, and Layla were the only ones who dared, or, well, bothered to do so.

Though Layla almost couldn’t. After hours of begging and promised assurances, she had barely gotten permission from her father.

At the end, even after accepting her going, he stopped her outside the inn, telling her to stay, but she’d somehow wormed her way into this “little adventure” anyway.

There was no stopping her once she got an idea in her head, and Malik didn’t even begin trying. Either way, she fell under his protection, and if she got gravely injured, a little dying would certainly help. Unless that happened again, there was no need to worry.

Malik couldn’t be that unlucky, could he?

The three stood outside the building in question—a two-story wreck with boarded-up windows and a door barely hanging on by rusted hinges. But more importantly, there were footprints. Belonging to small feet. Dozens of them. Some old, some fresh, all leading inside.

The three exchanged glances and nodded. No words were needed.

Malik stepped up first, tapping the door lightly with his knuckles.

He pressed his ear against it, listening.

Silence.

He gave it one more knock, stepped back, and unsheathed his curved sword.

CRACK.

It cleaved through the door like it was paper, splitting it clean in half.

The unhinged half clattered to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust, and though it looked loud, it wasn’t all that bad, so they continued as normal.

Malik squeezed through first, blade low, eyes scanning every shadow.

And… nothing. No guards. No movement. Just a musty stink and something worse—something chemical.

Tap… Tap…

His boots tapped softly against the stone floor.

A signal.

Hearing it, they squeezed in as well, keeping low.

Once inside, they hugged the walls and crept forward, following Malik’s every move.

The building was quiet, but the deeper they went, the stronger that acrid smell became.

And then, faintly…

“…ill…”

An unintelligible whisper.

Malik barely had time to react before Layla bolted forward.

“Damn it—!”

He lunged after her, fingers just brushing her sleeve before she slipped out of reach, rounding the corner.

‘Why the Hell is she so fast? Isn’t she a non-combatant?!’

Cursing under his breath, he took off after her, the priest right behind him, feet barely making a sound on the stone.

The hallway twisted into another and another until it reached an open area.

Once he stepped in, the stench hit him like a wall. So thick it felt like oil in his throat, turning each breath into something foul, but… that wasn’t what grabbed his attention.

It was Layla.

She stood frozen at the entrance, fingers digging into her mouth like she was trying to stop herself from screaming. Her whole body shook, her eyes locked on something ahead.

Malik followed her gaze.

And there they were.

Fifteen bodies.

Huddled together in the farthest corner of the room, piled on top of each other like discarded dolls.

Then, all of a sudden, for a second—just a second—their forms glitched.

Their faces weren’t their own.

They were his… Sinbad.

All of them.

Necks slit, blood pooling beneath them, seeping into the stone like the earth itself was drinking deep. Their dead eyes, all fifteen of them, locked onto Malik.

His breath hitched.

He shook his head hard—’No. No, that’s not real.’

And just like that, they were gone.

Back to their original forms.

After a shaky breath, he stepped forward and kneeled beside the nearest child.

Lowering his right hand, he pressed two fingers to the boy’s neck.

“He’s…”

A beat.

“…Alive. Still alive.”

The priest did the same, checking another.

“He’s breathing.”

Layla crouched by a girl no older than ten.

“S-She is too…”

It was a relief, but only a small one.

The kids weren’t dead, but they weren’t healthy either.

Their breathing was too slow, their bodies too slack.

“Drugged… the bastards.”

The priest muttered while adjusting his robe, prompting Malik to nod.

“But something’s wrong.”

The priest frowned.

“What?”

Malik glanced at Layla, then back at the children.

“Count them. There’s more. Three more.”

Layla looked up sharply at the priest, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Didn’t you tell us they were twelve? Where did they come from? And why weren’t they reported missing?”

The priest raised both hands, waving his palms.

“I… I don’t know. But casting suspicion upon me so hastily is unwise. When confronted with unexpected revelations, one must not allow doubt to cloud their judgment. It serves no purpose to put an ally on edge. In fact—”

Tap.

Cutting off the priest’s rambling with a tap of his boot, Malik got straight to what mattered:

“Enough. Forget all that—just think for a sec. If they’re all knocked out… then whose whisper did we just hear?”

The annoyed Layla and the priest glanced at him and then at each other, only now realizing that they overlooked the very thing that led them here.

Rrustle!

But before they could process that, they heard low shuffling.

Three of the kids had stirred, struggling to push themselves upright.

One boy with dirty brown hair looked up at Malik with bleary eyes.

“We… we were awake… We couldn’t get the door open… we were trying to get out.”

Malik narrowed his eyes.

“Then why pretend to sleep? I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that we weren’t your captors.”

The boy dropped his gaze.

“We… we were scared! You can’t expect us to know!”

The priest placed a hand on Malik’s shoulder, a silent warning to ease up.

“They likely used just enough to keep them unconscious without causing harm. And they messed up with these three.”

Malik scoffed.

“Amateurs, then?”

“Not necessarily.”

The priest countered.

“As I said, too much could cause permanent damage, and they obviously wouldn’t want that to happen to their product. So they either miscalculated the dosage or those kids simply had a higher immunity to it.”

Layla clenched her jaw.

“Product. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The priest turned to the boy, offering a reassuring nod.

“Don’t worry. We’re getting all of you back to your families.”

Malik, however, had other priorities. He crouched in front of the other two kids.

“Remember anything about the fuckers who took you? Faces? Names?”

The first kid stammered.

“I-I… I don’t—”

Layla smacked Malik on the head.

“Language!”

He ignored her.

“So?”

The boy swallowed hard.

“I don’t… please don’t hurt me.”

Malik turned to the other.

“You?”

“I—I was sleeping… I just woke up here… I don’t know what’s going on.”

He glanced at the priest.

“You think bandits have access to this kinda drug?”

The priest shook his head.

“No. This is organized. A faction is involved.”

“Oh, a religious one?”

“…Likely. But not the faction itself. Their militias. And not their top brass, no, double digits aren’t worth their time. This reeks of extremism.”

Malik nodded.

“Yeah. Too much work for common bandits, too little for a full-fledged faction. Sounds like bottom-feeding extremists to me. Those dregs are too low on the food chain to think about doing things in a roundabout way.”

Layla snickered.

“Some bigwig in this church allying with extremists, how nice~.”

The priest smirked.

“And if we leak this to the factions, their own people will kill them before we even have to.”

“Now that’s an idea.”

Malik turned back to the kids.

“What do you think? Isn’t calling those types of organizations militias sullying the word? Ain’t they just glorified cults? Tell me.”

They hesitated.

“I… I don’t know.”

Layla flicked his forehead.

“Stop scaring them.”

Malik caught her hand before she could retract it.

“List the cults for me.”

She huffed but complied.

“Templar have the Paladins. Twelvers have Naser Al-Sultan and Hashashin. Originists have the Zealots. There are others I think, but those are the most publicly known ones.”

Malik released her and turned to the most nervous of the two boys, staring him down.

“What do you think? Which cult is it?”

“…”

The kid trembled, saying nothing and Malik’s golden eyes narrowed further in response.

“Tough one, huh? Templar is the obvious choice. Always figured them for this kinda filth.”

“…”

Nothing.

“…Then again, Twelvers aren’t much better. Could be them.”

“…”

Still nothing.

“But you know…”

Malik leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Originists do love their money. More than their lives, even.”

The boy flinched. A small, nearly imperceptible movement.

“Ah… you almost had it.”

Schwing!

Steel flashed. A dull thud followed.

Then…

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Layla’s scream tore through the room.