Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 238

Chapter 238: A Lost Boy
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{Outside The Projection}

“Ah.”

Yeah. That… that was something else.

No one really had the words for it. Hell, what words could one even pull out after watching something like that?

Was every truth this guy had just doomed to end in tragedy? Was that his fate?

The hall, same as it was before this whole thing kicked off, sat under a blanket of quiet. Not respectful silence or awe, just blank. Hollow.

This quiet was broken only by a few whispered prayers.

These people felt like they needed to do something or they’d fall apart.

But most? Most just stood there, stuck. Staring at the projection that had moved on, as if they looked long enough, they’d unsee it.

That scene hit hard. Way too hard.

It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t melodramatic, it wasn’t even unique.

No, it was something worse. Something real.

Something that could be seen anywhere.

A head-on collision with guilt, with loss, with what it actually costs to bear the weight of power. A face-to-face with the reality of war. Of death. Of family.

And the part that really messed with them?

It wasn’t the heartbreak… the crying, no.

It was seeing him—the Sultan—on his knees.

That sight alone made something twist in their guts.

It didn’t give them feelings of cringe, nor was it uncomfortable, and it certainly wasn’t pathetic. But still, it felt… wrong. Too close.

It was private. It was personal.

They felt like they were walking in on someone mid-breakdown…

None of them should have seen it.

Yet now that they had…

They couldn’t look away.

Indeed, this didn’t make them think less of him.

His status in their eyes had not shaken.

If anything, it made him more.

…Higher.

Most people wouldn’t do what he did.

Not ever.

Not to someone mortal.

Not to someone they barely knew.

And especially not in front of the whole damn world.

But Malik, their better, saw no difference in that.

Or perhaps he did see the difference…

He saw all of its details.

The divide between them, the fact that they were mortal, weak, and scared.

But, instead of that difference discouraging him from that action, it had pushed him to do it.

The crowd was already floored. Stunned. But then someone whispered it—”He sees everything as Corrupt, doesn’t he?” And suddenly it all sank deeper.

He couldn’t even see the family of three the way they could.

He didn’t have the Ten Commandent’s blessing as they did.

There was no soft face. No tear-filled eyes. No tremble in the lips or color in the cheeks. Just that twisted mess IT showed him. That’s all Malik ever saw.

And still… he touched her. Held her hand.

That simple act meant more than words ever could. Especially for someone like him.

Especially for someone who hadn’t truly touched anyone in God knew how long.

And his two words?

Man, his words.

They carried the weight of someone who’d long given up on ever being understood. Someone who chose to be gentle even when the world gave him every excuse not to be.

Again, for the millionth time, it hit hard. So hard, in fact, that the entire crowd started looking around, eyes scanning, turning in every direction like they’d suddenly remembered someone important was missing.

“Where’s Faqir?”

“The idiot?”

No one laughed at that question.

That nickname didn’t sit right anymore. Not after this.

“King of dumbasses” just felt… childish. Unsuitable.

Because now they saw it—who he really was, and more importantly, who Malik had seen all along.

He’d left the hall alongside Nasir, now probably off in some corner, writing a goodbye letter, a will, or praying to the God he barely believed in, preparing for death.

Poor bastard.

He’d spent this whole tragic mess throwing stones at the one man who’d ever offered him anything pure. The only man who’d held him with such gentleness, such reverence. Who gave him more than food, more than shelter—he gave him dignity. The one man who sacrificed too much of his own.

And sure, nobody knew exactly what happened to all the gold Malik gave his mother, but…

It didn’t take a genius to guess.

The man grew up on the streets, didn’t he?

Yeah, Malik might’ve given the city way too much credit.

In any case, even without him present, they could all see it. Feel it.

The moment had collectively hit them. That Malik… Malik had won.

Though it didn’t look like it. It didn’t sound or feel like it…

Malik had indeed won.

Won against IT.

Won against the darkness.

Won against the thing nobody thought could ever be beaten.

The crowd began to look at each other, some wiping their faces, others awkwardly pretending they hadn’t been crying into their sleeves, but slowly, all their eyes landed on a lone woman.

A leader with nearly no one in their camp.

A leader abandoned like her teacher was.

Safira.

She was alone, still on her knees, a forgotten statue, half-crumbled by regret.

Some of the older women tried to shuffle towards her. Offer a word. Maybe a comfort.

But when they saw Huda?

Yeah, they stopped.

Because Huda was looking at her too. Arms in her dress’s sleeves. Eyes cold.

She didn’t offer the poor woman a hand, a word. Nothing.

Their roles had been flipped.

Huda saw Safira as a coward now.

Safira wasn’t the proud one anymore.

She was just broken.

And Layla? The woman who chose to leave him in peace?

She, perhaps, was worse off than even her.

Her suffering hadn’t ended with the completion of her first… arc.

No. It hadn’t. It had only gotten worse, worse, and worse over time.

This was Hell.

This was her Hell.

The world around her had disappeared.

It was only he who was left.

Only him.

And he was… he…

She couldn’t take it.

Never had she thought guilt could eat her so.

Never had she thought that such a feeling could be possible.

Her hands held her shoulders as she was trying—failing—to hold herself together.

Seeing her husband, her Malik, the same Malik who once carried the world on his shoulders like it weighed nothing—seeing him kneel like that—

It broke her heart.

Shattered it into a thousand more pieces than she even thought she had left.

The poor woman kept whispering something into her palms. Over and over.

…Nobody could hear the words.

But the prayer?

It sounded desperate.

Perhaps begging for some sort of time spell, a miracle, a do-over.

But, unfortunately for her, only the Lady and her Blessed could do such a thing.

Meanwhile, Crimson and Azeem were nowhere to be seen. Though they were probably still sitting up at the Holy Palace’s peak, reminiscing about someone they both loved very dearly.

Roya stayed stone-faced, like always, standing with that unreadable expression she wore too damn well. Her arms crossed, her fingers drumming on her sleeves.

And Noor…

Noor was fuming.

Anyone could see it.

Brow pinched. Jaw locked.

Watching Malik kneel had twisted something deep inside her.

Because to her, people like her, people like Malik, THE Sultan—people of power, of weight—should not kneel.

Never.

Never. Never! NEVER!

She didn’t get it. She didn’t want to get it.

People like them weren’t supposed to bend their knees.

Not for grief. Not for guilt. Not even for God.

But there he was… kneeling like a beggar.

And Noor… she hated it.

She hated him for it, even though she didn’t understand the exact reason why.

Which left Zafar.

Oh, poor, poor “hero.”

Standing there with his little gang of yes-men—the rich boys and the noble brats, all looking around nervously, pretending they didn’t care but clearly itching to leave.

Zafar wasn’t looking at them, though.

He was just staring…

At the now-paused projection.

At the empty air.

At nothing.

Frozen.

Because he realized, finally, fully, with no room left to lie to himself—this story wasn’t about him… it was never going to be about him. Never.

He wasn’t the hero.

He wasn’t the chosen one.

He wasn’t the leader, or the preferred next in line to be Sultan, or the legend who would be written about for centuries.

He was just a footnote. Some side character.

Someone masquerading as the main character.

Someone that could be safely ignored, easily hated.

A character that no one liked.

A character that was unworthy of change.

No… even that was too much.

He was a husk. Not a character but a husk of one.

All he had to himself was unquestionably incredible luck.

That was it. Nothing else… Nothing.

It was obvious, wasn’t it?

Everyone saw it.

Perhaps since the beginning.

Zafar, he…

He had never—not once—knelt for anyone.

Maybe… maybe that was exactly why he wasn’t the main character.

Maybe that was why the world had moved on from him, his words.

And now… the boy was lost.

He didn’t know what to do anymore.

Didn’t know what to hope for, who to back.

But that wasn’t going to be for long.

Taking one last glance at his yes-men, Zafar nodded, tapped the ground with his feet, and disappeared.