Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 39: Dune Guardian

Their eyes were so far from black, barely any even had a dark-colored pupil.

Was it because the blood of the True Sultan had diluted over generations?

Was that it?

’Maybe.’

But even if they were tenth-generation or younger, it didn’t matter.

Their power—oh, their power—was still ridiculous.

Even watered down, even diminished, these Magi were leagues beyond the Celestials he’d known before his first death.

Any of them could probably wipe the floor with a Celestial of a higher sub-rank.

The difference was that great.

And that wasn’t the only difference.

Here, all Magi followed one of three paths.

There was Sahir, which he already knew as Spell Weaver.

Then there was Kahin, which he’d heard called Arcanist.

And finally, something he’d never come across before:

Dune Guardian—or as the religious here called it, Sultan Al-Sahara.

A path to becoming the True Sultan.

That was it. No long-ass lists. Just three paths.

Though still a lot to take in, he couldn’t deny that it was simpler than the system his planet had adopted.

That decrease in complexity was a Godsend.

It made adapting to this world’s system easier.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

No, if Malik had his way, he’d be in an even simpler world.

One of those ridiculous ones where progression worked like this:

Step one, eat some miracle pill.

Step two, sit on your ass meditating for ten years.

Step three, boom—you’ve gone from rank-twelve fuck-face to rank-ten face-fuck, still about a hundred ranks below the Golden Demonic Heavenly Dragon Body Star Emperor Ancestor God.

And that was fine!

You have the SSS rank Whatever System by your side. What more could you need?

Besides, you’ve got, what, a few hundred lifespans to go before you need to worry about the real heavy hitters—those no-brained, rotting bastards who can kill you with a wave of their hand.

Until then, you can casually wipe out some fuck-face clan obsessed with your demise because you courted death by obliterating their buddies in the face-fuck clan.

All over some jade-like beauty childhood friend, no less.

Classic. Simple. Fun... well, that last one was arguable, but still, his point remained true.

Either way. That wasn’t his life.

Instead, Malik was stuck here, dealing with a system that was too damn elaborate for its own good.

Now, it was HIS system, sure, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

’...Whatever~.’

Chuckling inwardly at the absurdity of his thoughts, he refocused on the people around him.

He could still see tremors running through their bodies, a nervous shiver that refused to die.

No doubt, they couldn’t help but replay that moment—the one where his body wreathed in golden flames.

His eyes.

They were the same as the ones they feared, the ones they revered.

Such a sight made them lose the ability to think.

Indeed, this was the birth of their Sultan.

The projection wasn’t helping either.

It remained frozen on a black screen, the ’title drop’ sitting in the middle, almost mocking them with its casualness.

A Holy Relic turned his life—and theirs—into a story, making it feel like some dramatic show for its amusement, with them stuck as the main characters.

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They’d probably have gotten pissed if they could, but what would be the point?

What good was getting emotional about a Holy Relic?

What good was anger when you had no control?

So, instead of snapping at the projection or each other, they broke free of their shock.

It was slow, but eventually, almost the entire crowd began to talk with one another.

"Look at his eyes. Safe to say, this is what truly kicked off his ascent."

"Yeah, seems like he’s finally made up his mind."

"Those dreams he spoke of earlier, especially for someone who was a beggar, seemed unrealistically high. But now? This? Mere comparison would sully them."

"Agreed, it’s admirable almost. If I had been a beggar like him since young, I doubt I’d have any goals except the next day’s meal."

"No wonder he became the Sultan."

The more emotional groups couldn’t get past his last words, while those nearer to the projection were already picking apart the implications of what they’d just seen.

"So... he already had an Aether Core?"

"Guess it all makes sense now. How he survived all that."

"Mhm. He wasn’t a mortal."

"...You think his guardian had him do it?"

"Looks like it."

"That guy had to be something special. No way he was just some random nobody."

"Yeah, it’s surprising he died."

"The Sultan said that he buried someone ’once’ before. High chance it’s his guardian."

"Yeah."

Another group was more curious about the specifics.

"When do you guys think he became a Magi?"

"Has to be a few years by then."

"Agreed... Everything the former Sultan said makes a lot more sense now."

"Yep. He had to store his Aether somewhere."

"Also explains that curse of his."

"Right. Any kind of spell needs a core to work."

Another was a group trying to find fault in anything he did.

"Can you call that a fortuitous encounter?"

"I mean… if it is, it’s a pretty boring one."

"Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s read that book since they were six."

"No way he didn’t get one later on. Cultivating this late will bring mediocre results at most."

"True, true."

Malik listened to their quiet chatter.

Everyone was trying to piece together the puzzle.

Trying to make sense of a life they’d never truly understood.

Well, actually, it wasn’t exactly everyone.

Those with undying grudges were beyond ecstatic seeing Malik’s pitiful state.

Even though they were supposed to be of the "heroic" coalition.

And they, after holding back for so long, finally decided to join the growing crowd, sensing their chance to tear down his image.

"Why the fuck are you guys praising him so much?!"

"Remember who he really is!"

"Sure, he might’ve been a great kid once, but look at him now!"

"He’s a changed man! Forget whatever sob story you saw—this guy deserves death!"

"Exactly! A Sultan who steps on millions of corpses to get to the throne? That’s not a Sultan; that’s a butcher!"