Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 225: Mad Miserable Magnificent Bastard

Gone. Vanished. Poof.

It was like someone had yanked the crown off his head and slapped him with reality.

He wasn't frozen like Safira and Duban or falling apart like Layla, but he came real close.

The man just stood there. Stiff. Silent. Jaw half-clenched like he wanted to say something—maybe something clever, heroic, or leader-like—but his brain wasn't giving him anything to work with.

And his little gang of hype men? His yes-brothers?

They were just as stuck.

They all side-eyed each other, wondering, "What now?"

Usually, they'd crack a dumb joke, cheer, play it off, hype up their Lord even if the crowd looked ready to throw hands.

But even they knew that right now was not the time.

So they shut up.

They believed themselves better off being quiet, at least until their Lord said something first.

Smart move, for once.

And so, they waited. And waited. And kept waiting.

But Zafar? Still nothing.

He was locked in his own head. Still trying to understand what just happened.

Trying to wrap his brain around that level of sacrifice... It was way beyond him. He simply could not understand it.

Another man had just given up everything.

Their life. Their future. Their entire existence—for others.

How? How come fathers so easily laid down their lives for their children?

And how come a stranger could do that so easily for people to whom he had no such relation?

Zafar didn't get it.

What kind of person does that?

Sure, he'd read stories. Hero sacrifices. Big emotional deaths. But seeing it happen—really happen—up close?

It hit different.

And that was when the questions started creeping in. Ugly ones. Heavy ones.

'Is that what real heroes do?'

'Is that what it takes to inspire?'

'They just throw their lives away?'

'Do I have to be like that?'

'Would that get me the crown?'

'Would people finally see me as more than just a loudmouth with a fancy sword?'

'Do I even have it in me to do something like that?'

Zafar didn't know.

He really, truly didn't.

His silence was confusion.

It sat heavy on his chest and made him question everything he thought he knew.

So the "hero" just stood there.

Not proud. Not strong. Not brave.

Just... stuck.

Wondering what the Hell he was even supposed to be anymore.

And while he turned over all those questions he couldn't answer, a change suddenly took place.

Safira had finally cracked.

People turned when they heard it.

Hicc!

That tiny, awful sound came out of her mouth.

A little hiccup.

And then she cried.

Of course, she cried, breaking down.

Their hearts broke at that sight.

Safira cried hard.

She cried, cried, and cried.

She cried because she was sad; she cried because she was mad; she cried because there was nothing else she could do but cry, and that fact only made her sadder and angrier. Every long and lonely night she spent thinking about him, wondering what went wrong, every silent moment she'd pretended not to care—had seemed to return to her all at once, and because she could do nothing more, she cried.

She cried like the world had ended.

Because, to her, it had.

She cried because she had no idea what else to do.

Someone had shoved centuries' worth of pain back into her in a single second, and it had sent her reeling.

She cried because she was angry.

Angry at everything. At herself. At the universe. At the stupid rules that made life so damn unfair.

She cried because no matter how strong she was, no matter how many masks she wore, or how many sharp comebacks she had locked and loaded...

Right now, she was just a girl who had lost something too big to hold.

And worst of all?

She cried because Malik had ended it between them.

He had walked away. Just like that.

She thought it'd end at that.

But when death came?

When everything was collapsing?

He was the one who stepped in front of her.

The one who shielded her with his life.

That wasn't love.

That was something worse.

Something crueler. Because it didn't fade. It lingered.

It clung to her ribs, curled around her spine, whispered in her ear.

It was a ghost that refused to leave. A love that haunted her.

A kind that didn't give her closure.

It only left her broken with a million questions and no one to answer them.

And as she stood there, eyes red and swollen, she only cried harder.

Because knowing he loved her that much?

Knowing he still loved her even after everything?

It felt like poison in a wound that would never close.

And what about Duban?

He, too, had broken through his stone.

It had cracked and shattered. But unlike Safira, he didn't fall apart out loud.

No—Duban went the other way.

He was silent. Way too silent.

Sure, some folks might've thought that meant he was holding it together.

But anyone really looking? Anyone who actually knew him?

They could see it.

His shoulders were shaking—barely, but enough to notice.

His head was bowed so low, like the weight of what he'd just seen was too heavy to lift.

Like, if he even tried to speak, the words would choke him out halfway.

He wasn't okay. Not even close.

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But could one blame him?

No sane man—Hell, no person with even half a heart—could've witnessed what he just did and walked away normal.

Duban had just watched his father throw himself onto a ticking, screaming Aether bomb. Had seen Malik—the man he once hated, doubted—stand between IT and everyone else.

Not just some strong villain or twisted freak show.

It was Depravity itself.

The literal embodiment of everything wrong with the world.

Duban used to think Malik was the monster.

He'd looked at him like a threat, like a problem they had to solve.

Someone to be cautious of. Someone to keep in check.

But now?

Now he realized just how damn wrong he'd been.

What kind of strength did it take to fight something like that?

To blink again and again—through pain, through exhaustion, through madness—and still stand?… And still keep them alive? Save them?

"…How many Blinks did it take?"

No one answered his whisper.

Not because they didn't hear him. But because no one wanted to know.

No one wanted to face the number. Because they all knew it was too many. More than any man should survive. More than a person should even try to survive.

And that was why Malik looked the way he did now.

He hadn't walked away from this fight with his head held high and some dumb-ass grin on his face. He didn't get the shiny golden moment with the wind blowing just right and some heroic ballad swelling in the background.

No.

He crawled back.

A wreck. A ruin. A barely breathing, bloodied silhouette of the man he used to be.

But still… he did it.

He won.

And that's when it hit everyone in the room—hard and all at once.

That obvious, insane, impossible truth had been processed:

Malik beat it.

He beat IT.

The thing that the world couldn't name, couldn't fight, couldn't look at without losing their minds. The thing that the True Sultan would've turned His back on.

He won a fight that shouldn't have been winnable. And he paid the kind of price no one else was ever willing to pay.

Duban finally looked up, blue eyes glassy but lit full of awe.

"You mad, miserable, magnificent bastard."