Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 41: Another Beginning

Every time the Holy Relic pulled a new trick out of its metaphorical hat, Roya’s confusion cranked up another notch, noticing how it forced them to participate in a bad soap opera.

But she, being THE information broker—capital T, capital I, capital B—wasn’t the type to sit back and twiddle her thumbs waiting for answers to just drop into her lap.

Oh no.

The second that projection flickered into existence, she’d already sent one of her people sprinting off to Templar, the ones from whom she borrowed the Holy Relic.

She didn’t care how that cut-off, holier-than-thou religious faction managed to get their hands on something as insane as a Ten Commandment—that was their problem, not hers.

What she did care about?

Why the Hell none of this was in the fine print when she borrowed it.

...’Borrowed.’

Alright, so maybe it wasn’t a traditional loan.

More like she acquired it through a strategic long-term leasing agreement.

You know, the kind that involved an exchange of favors, veiled threats, and an unhealthy amount of side-eyeing.

But whatever. Details.

And surprise, surprise—her lackey came back with squat.

[Lady Roya… I’m sorry, but they said they didn’t know.]

She slowly blinked, resisting the urge to groan.

[So they’re not willing to tell us? You threaten them?]

[Yes, my Lady. And no, they’re telling the truth.]

Roya rolled her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a headache.

’Of course they don’t know. Useless idiots.’

She wanted to groan, but that’d give away how annoyed she was, so instead, she kept it together.

With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed the woman, who slipped out of the hall like a shadow, unnoticed by everyone else too busy gawking at the projection.

’If they don’t know what else this thing does, then what?...’

She began to twirl her very long blonde hair while her mind spun in a hundred directions.

’Is it safe to continue? And more importantly…’

Roya looked back at the projection.

’Just how much more can it do?’

The thought sent a chill down her spine—a mix of excitement and unease.

Her lips curled into a slow, dangerous grin.

She couldn’t wait to find out.

Azeem, meanwhile, sat with his legs crossed, his gaze glued to the projection, not thinking about anything beyond it.

He wasn’t arguing, sobbing, or scheming like the others.

He was just... there, staring, not moving an inch.

The image of the Sultan—no, his Sultan—had been torn apart and stitched back together more times than he could count in the last few hours.

And every time it rebuilt itself, it was something different. Something new.

The man he idolized, the man he hated, the man he respected, the man he feared, the man he once loved—it was all one person, and that person wasn’t someone he knew.

Disillusioned? Yeah, that was an understatement.

But even that didn’t quite cover it.

It wasn’t just about what Azeem had learned or what he thought he knew about the Sultan.

No, this was more than that... more than what he could handle.

Not from a man like him, not from his Sultan.

But just as he was about to sink even deeper into the whirlpool of his own thoughts, a voice broke through the noise—a single word louder than anything else in the room.

"...Leaving."

It was a barely-there sound, but it hit Azeem like nothing else.

His eyes and everyone else’s that heard, darted to one woman.

The Lady of Al-Sayf.

Huda.

The hall fell deathly silent, their previous thoughts, arguments, and fights dimming to nothing but an afterthought.

All wanted to hear her again.

Maybe they’d misheard. Surely they had.

And Huda, choosing to be brave, granted their silent plea.

"I’m sorry. But I can’t stay here anymore... Al-Sayf will withdraw from the coalition."

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to drop.

But not for long, as Zafar broke the stunned quiet.

"You can’t just leave. Not now... not when it’s over. It makes no difference to him."

Huda’s eyes flicked to the "hero," her lips pressing into a thin line.

"I can and I will."

She began to move, but Zafar blocked her way.

Her camp could’ve stopped him, but no one made a move.

"You’re running away... Do you think walking out changes anything? That the Villain will magically undo what he’s done because you turned your back?"

Huda let out a laugh, short and bitter.

"I’m not running away. I’m only doing what I should’ve done since the beginning. Layla’s correct. Not one Magi under my flag has the right to be in this hall today."

Zafar was about to respond, but she shut him up with a glare and continued:

"And don’t twist this around. You want me to stay here for your benefit, not mine. But don’t worry. I’ll keep watching his memories until the guilt stops eating me alive, and I’ll hate him as much as I hate myself."

"That’s not—"

Zafar started, but Huda cut him off again, taking a step forward.

"I’m naive, maybe. But I’m not the dumb broad you think I am."

She wasn’t shouting, but each word landed with the force of a punch.

And though she didn’t say it directly, it was obvious what her words meant.

Huda could see through him. Quite clearly at that.

"I-Is the coalition falling apart?"

"Al-Sayf can’t just do that, can they?"

"We need everyone; we can’t be—"

The hall buzzed with a ripple of murmurs, quickly silenced by her glare.

Azeem opened his mouth to speak, to berate her, but the look on her face stopped him.

Not because he was scared, no, he wasn’t even sure that such a thing was possible.

It was for her sake, for it seemed that another word sent her way might just ruin her completely.

Because it wasn’t just the pain or the guilt that had sent her to this point, but the brewing jealousy that she dared not acknowledge.

It was obvious to anyone watching that Malik cared for Sinbad many times more than he cared for her.

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When they met, Malik honestly claimed that he wouldn’t have saved them if not for her.

Now?

She was sure it was the other way around.

Malik only kept her alive because she was Sinbad’s sister.

Though that was an extremely pessimistic view, and not at all the truth, it still held some semblance of it.

That was enough for her.

Huda turned away, signaling to her camp to move.

"Let’s go."

The sound of steps echoed as they wordlessly followed.

Not a soul rained on her parade, and no one wanted to—except a certain disciple.

Safira.

"Coward."

That one word hit harder than any that she dished out, but Huda didn’t react to it.

She didn’t even slow her steps.

Her silence, more deafening than any retort, was a statement in itself.

Safira sneered, but she didn’t bother chasing after her or trying to get the last word in.

She only stood there, watching as Huda and her camp disappeared through the grand doors.

For the next few moments, no one dared moved.

It wasn’t until Azeem let out a long, tired sigh that the crowd seemed to collectively remember how to breathe.

But even as murmurs broke out and the hall came back to life, there was one question nobody voiced out loud—yet it hung over them like a storm cloud:

’What now?’

Only one person had the answer.

Up above, still floating around, was Malik, watching the drama unfold below like it was the final act of one of his favorite plays.

Then, as if he decided something, the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.

"Bassorāh."

The word left his mouth like a quiet decree, his soul slipping seamlessly back into his body.

Down below, the projection flickered, the glowing words twisting and shifting.

A moment later, new bold text materialized on the screen, announcing another beginning:

[Volume 2: For Whom The Bell Tolls.]