Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 275

Chapter 275: Her Love Was Poison
Malik didn’t say a word as he walked out of the stables.

He didn’t breathe like a man hurting.

Like her, he just… left.

And so that was that.

Another story was over.

Another tie was cut.

…

…

…

The banquet hall was sparkling gold.

Crystals and pearls and damn near every color that screamed rich bastard were ever present.

Massive chandeliers spun slowly overhead, built with white glass and diamonds so clear they looked like frozen tears.

Dotted about the hall were tables, and these tables curved like a crescent moon in layers, stacked from the marble floor to the viewing balconies, all pointing toward the ivory platform where the main table sat.

The one meant for the “Blessed Guests.”

Nobles of all manners and looks filled the area, chatting away.

Only one man remained alone, sipping on a drink he didn’t quite like.

That man was Malik.

He was right in the middle of it all.

And though he was alone, everyone wanted to talk to him.

But no one had the courage to approach, his figure too intimidating.

Though that didn’t remain true for long, as a cute little kid ran up to him, her eyes locked on the food on his plate.

She undoubtedly wanted a bite.

Barely any of the nobles were eating, preferring not to gorge themselves and make connections instead, which, in turn, left this kid no plate to steal… no plate except Malik’s.

“Here.”

Malik smiled softly at her, or at least tried to, picked her up, and sat her down on the chair next to him, gesturing for her to eat.

She looked at the food for a long time, then looked back at him, raising both her arms.

He tilted his head, confused at what she wanted, but quickly understood that she wanted him to feed her while she sat on his lap.

“S-So sorry for this, Lord Malik!”

But before he could pick her up a second time, her father came in running, his hands a trembling mess.

“Please don’t punish her; she’s just a child.”

Malik turned towards him.

…Lord? Punish her? Why would he do that?

This father’s eyes were locked on his mouth.

‘Hm.’

Malik touched his face.

He wiped it.

‘Oh.’

It seemed that he had forgotten just how broken his smile was.

Shaking his head, he picked up the kid and gave her back to her father.

“There’s nothing to punish; you can go.”

The man nodded his head deeply, which for a noble was the equivalent of a full-on bow, showing just how thankful he felt.

“Thank you, Lord.”

Malik gestured for him to leave, but just as he was about to turn away, another man came to take his place, seemingly encouraged by the interaction they had just witnessed.

“Ah! Son of Mahdi, won’t you sit next to us? We’ve kept the seat warm!”

Pausing for a moment, Malik glanced at him and opened his mouth to respond, but again—

“Lord Malik, is it true that you’ve completed your Divine Pilgrimage in only ten years?”

Another came along.

“Lord Malik—Lord! M-My daughter paints—she’d be delighted to offer her services to a man of your—”

And another.

“Lord Malik! My cousin is a seamstress—perhaps she could make you a proper robe for the winter months? I’ve heard that you’re from the South, so I doubt you’ve bothered to buy one.”

A group began to form.

“Your Lordship, you must visit our vineyard someday! The grapes are particularly sweet this year—just like my youngest daughter’s smile, if I may say so!”

“Do you enjoy music, Lord Malik? My daughter plays the oud, and she sings quite well. Perhaps you’d enjoy a performance sometime.”

“Would you care for dessert, Lord Malik? My family imports dates from the south. My daughter prepared the tray herself, actually. She insists on offering it to you personally.”

“Forgive me, but… are you fond of poetry? My youngest has written several verses about your victories. She’s quite shy—but for you, I think she’d read them aloud.”

They went on and on and on, finding any way to form a connection, not giving a shit about his origin or that he was a bastard.

These lot had brains in their heads, and their superiority complex didn’t seem to affect that.

But even if it did for some, they still chased after him, for those that ascended far along the Divine Hierarchy could no longer be perceived by mortal standards.

These Magi were divine, closer to God; how dare they judge him?

Mistake or not, who were they to look down upon him?

Malik didn’t seem to react to any of it.

Though he did poetry and appreciated the good oud player, he wasn’t interested in marriage.

It was for their own good, as there was no point in marrying a dead man.

And so, he only gave them a courtesy nod and turned back to his table.

He took a sip from his polished goblet and continued to eat from the golden platter before him, a roast beast soaked in fruit glaze and a delicate basmati rice with gold-thread garnish.

It was food that he had never eaten before and never thought he’d ever eat.

Food so good he was unable to imagine how it even came about.

And for now, that interested him much more than marriage.

Whoever the chefs were, a million kudos to them.

He didn’t get how Cyrus could get mad at them.

Guess that was another reason to hate him.

Bastard could not appreciate good food.

Seeing him eat away in peace, the nobles quickly picked up on what he was thinking and stopped crowding him, knowing when not to push their luck.

Appreciating that, Malik waved them away.

When they were gone, he began to make himself comfortable, taking off his dark coat, placing it on one of the chairs next to him, revealing the black tunic underneath.

His clothes were far from suitable for a banquet such as this, where everyone wore bright silks and smooth, perfumed cloaks, but no one dared complain.

He could wear what he liked.

It was a bit funny.

Even if he barely spoke, he was the storm in the room.

Everyone… felt him.

Even when Cyrus and co finally arrived—sweeping in, wrapped in a peacock’s robe, rings on every finger, that smug twinkle in his eye—the crowd only half stood.

They were already paying attention to someone else.

Still, the room straightened up, smiles turned formal, and everyone got into their tables.

This was the Sultan, and he would receive his respect.

“Sit, sit, please.”

Cyrus lazily waved his fingers.

“Let’s not make tradition stiff. We’re all friends tonight.”

The stewards moved like smooth mechanical contraptions. Goblets were filled in neat waves with date wine and honeyed spirits. At Malik’s side, a dark bottle was poured into a smaller goblet, thick like syrup.

Malik raised an eyebrow.

He hadn’t asked for anything.

But whatever, judging by the drink’s appearance, he knew it to be Cyrus’s doing.

He picked the goblet up and rolled it between two fingers.

“As we gather on this glorious night…”

Cyrus started his speech, sounding normal for once.

“Standing on the edge of something new—a union not just of two noble houses, but of worlds, of traditions, of blood and vision…”

He kept going.

Everyone in the hall listened with their smiles still on.

Some polite, some bored. Some just pretending to care because that’s what nobles do.

Malik didn’t hear any of it, though.

He just kept staring into the drink.

Dark.

Still.

It didn’t smell strange.

Just dates and a hint of rosewater.

“…May this union be the first of many that bind our houses together.”

Cyrus neared the end.

“A toast, my friends…”

Everyone raised their glasses towards the main table.

Malik glanced at Huda and did so as well.

“Here’s to a brighter Fam’s Iblis.”

He tipped the goblet and downed it all.

Enjoying the burning taste on his tongue, he smacked his lips and placed it back down.

It was surprisingly good.

Cyrus’s taste in things wasn’t all that bad after all.

Sure, it felt a little warm in his throat, but that was normal.

The drink was strong.

That was it.

There was…

There was nothing to worry about.

He was just unused to such drinks.

Malik—

Koff koff!

A sharp cough hit him.

He stiffened and looked down, confused.

Koff koff!

He coughed again.

But this time, something thick came up.

It touched his tongue.

Bitter. Metallic.

…Blood.

He blinked.

That was not right.

A Demon Sovereign shouldn’t cough.

Shouldn’t cough BLOOD. Shouldn’t get sick.

Their bodies didn’t react to what plagued mortals.

Unless—

HHRRK-KHH!

The third cough was violent.

His hand shot up to cover his mouth.

And he saw it.

Bright red.

Wet.

His breath hitched.

Everything started to spin.

The lights above blurred, shimmered.

Sound warped, slowing down.

People were still cheering for Cyrus.

Still sipping and downing their drinks.

Most hadn’t even noticed.

Only Cyrus did, and he…

He looked shocked out of his mind.

But Malik couldn’t exactly process that.

He tried to stand.

His hand slammed the table.

His legs shook.

He could feel something crawling under his skin.

Eating him from the inside. Fast.

Too fast.

He staggered.

One knee buckled.

A woman gasped.

Another screamed.

He couldn’t hear who.

He turned his head—

And saw him.

The groom-to-be.

Huda’s future husband.

Smiling.

Like it was a good show.

He saw Huda…

Sitting beside him.

She wasn’t crying.

Wasn’t confused.

She was smiling too.

Malik stared.

And everything in him went still.

Not the pain.

Not the burning.

Not the… poison.

Just the quiet.

The part of him that used to care for her was gone.

The part that tried to hold on to her?

Gone too.

His fingers slipped from the table’s edge.

His knees hit the floor.

Hard.

People stood up now.

Voices were rising.

“Is he—?”

“Somebody help—”

“Get the priests—”

“Move, move!”

But Malik didn’t move.

He just stared at her.

At the girl whom he didn’t remember.

At the girl whom he once loved.

At the girl who betrayed him.

Malik couldn’t believe it.

The world went black.

Just like that.

No final roar.

No glorious stand.

Just a man, fallen before a noble’s table.

Poisoned by her love.

Blink.