Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 183

Chapter 183: Between The Devil And The Deep
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{Inside The Projection}

Malik gasped, staggering back as the world righted itself, the white fading.

His body—his real body—felt heavy, drenched in sweat.

His breathing came fast, uneven, a state unfamiliar.

Faqir stood before him, watching.

Smiling.

“That…

Malik swallowed.

“What the fuck was that?”

Faqir spread his arms slightly, as if to say, ‘You asked.’

“You wanted to know about my life. Now you do… what a life, huh?”

Malik stared at him, heart pounding.

For the first time in a long time…

He didn’t know what to say.

Just utterly speechless.

Still, the main elements of what happened weren’t too surprising.

Back in Zawaya, he had seen a similar story play out too many times, though they were much, much… softer.

Different names, different faces, different circumstances, but always the same type of struggle.

People who thought they were fighting for freedom only to end up as slaves to a new master.

So, beautiful tragedy or not, Malik didn’t bother to console the man, only giving him a nod.

Rather, he seemed to have ignored all that he saw, even though it affected him in an unexpected way, a deep way, teaching him of Embodiment.

Though, he wasn’t ready to dive into that particular rabbit hole just yet. Not when there were more pressing matters gnawing at his brain.

This city—whatever the Hell it was called—was knee-deep in war.

Not some minor rebellion, not some back-alley squabble between nobles, but a full-blown, heads-on-pikes war.

If their words were to be believed, the city had once been ruled by a Caliph—a tyrant.

The kind of man whose name made people spit in the dirt, whose face had likely been carved into statues only to be torn down and replaced the moment he fell.

And fall he did.

The so-called rebels had made sure of that.

Somehow, against all odds, they had assassinated the bastard.

In the aftermath, a new regime had stepped in, scaring the rebels away.

Nasir Al-Sultan.

They hadn’t just taken the throne—they had taken everything.

The government, the military—whatever remained of it—and the city itself.

In one sweep, they had wrapped their hands around the city and refused to let go.

This wasn’t a recent event.

No, this all had happened at least eleven years ago.

How did Malik know?

Well, because that was around the time a small army was sent after Duban.

Most were just desperate bandits looking for coin, but that didn’t mean shit when they were up against a tiny village and a caravan.

It was overkill.

Way too overkill.

And, to make it even worse, a bunch of Sahirs were there as well.

These Magi were undoubtedly affiliated or maybe even a part of the higher ranks of the rebel faction itself.

Duban’s odds for survival were null.

The battle was simply impossible to win.

Yet, somehow, thanks to a certain father and son, he survived.

It wasn’t a win. No. They didn’t win. Again, that was impossible.

They survived. Duban and his companions had survived.

Mostly at least.

But here was the thing—those bandits?

They weren’t acting alone. They were being led.

Malik had found out exactly who was behind it.

Al-Ayan.

Which meant only one thing…

The Kingdom of Light had its hands deep in this war.

And not just as some outside force watching from the sidelines.

No, they were supplying these so-called ‘rebels.’

Weapons. Money. Information. Whatever it took to keep the fires burning.

No matter how many times they claimed it. This wasn’t about overthrowing some old tyrant.

That was a straight-up lie.

Everyone with half a brain saw through it.

This was simply about control. Control. And control.

It always came back to that, didn’t it?

The Kingdom of Light needed this city for themselves.

Malik didn’t need a Soothsayer to tell him that, but…

He needed a Soothsayer to confirm his thoughts.

“The rebels…”

Malik finally spoke.

“Who backs them?”

A hush fell over the group.

A few people shifted uncomfortably.

Faqir’s lips curled into something bitter.

“Al-Ayan.”

Malik didn’t react.

At least, not outwardly.

But inside? Inside, something burned.

A fire that had been simmering in his chest for years suddenly roared to life.

Vengeance.

Sweet, sweet vengeance.

Had it really come this early?

“Those dogs.”

Faqir continued, spitting the words out like they tasted foul.

“They pretend to fight for the people, for righteousness, but they’re just playing a bigger game. Ayan wants the land. The rebels were just their excuse to take it.”

“And the ones fighting against them?”

Malik asked, and the old woman answered with a click of her tongue:

“Hard to say with them. They keep to the shadows better than the rest, but let’s be real—no one turns down control of the Silk Road that passes through here. They need it just as much as anyone else. Can’t be the strongest militia on Fam Iblis if you can’t even arm your own men.”

He nodded his head.

“Any others?”

“More militias. Paladins and Zealots, but only a few of their officials. Their main force is a mix of locals who don’t want to see this place fall into Ayan’s hands.”

Malik narrowed his eyes.

“They got backers?”

Faqir raised a hand, answering with a name that made Malik’s blood go cold.

“Al-Sayf.”

Malik’s eyes flickered open wider.

“Al-Sayf? The Sultan’s family?”

Faqir nodded grimly.

“One Great Family versus another. They play their game, and we’re just the pieces.”

Malik exhaled through his nose.

“…Sounds about right.”

Two powerhouses. Two juggernauts of influence and wealth.

And the common people? They were just dust beneath their boots.

Mortals who stood between the Devil and the Deep.

Faqir gestured vaguely at the people around them.

“People like us are just in the way. We play their game because we don’t have a choice.”

Malik met his gaze.

“There’s always a choice.”

Faqir tilted his head, skeptical.

“Oh, really?”

Malik didn’t hesitate.

“Yes. You can always kill yourself.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Silence.

Every single person around him stopped moving.

Faqir’s expression blanked completely. The old woman blinked.

Someone let out a quiet, strangled cough.

It was funny.

They thought he was joking.

He wasn’t.

“Alright, then…”

Moving on, Faqir coughed into his fist, then asked:

“What choice would you make?”

Malik didn’t answer immediately.

He glanced at the people, at their faces, their tired eyes.

At the city, caught in the grip of a war that wasn’t really about them.

At the sand stretching beyond it all, swallowing everything in its path.

Then, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a silver coin.

He pressed it into Faqir’s hand.

“Where can I find them?”