Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 52: Inferno’s Aftermath

***

{Outside The Projection}

"…Did anyone see that?"

"The Sultan’s just a normal beggar, right?"

"His sword technique..."

"A R-Royal Sword style?"

"..."

The entire hall fell silent for a beat like its author had hit pause...

"No fucking way!"

Then chaos erupted once more.

"That has to be coincidental!"

"Nah, the Sultan must’ve had his guardian teach him!"

"Right, like anyone can just pull that shit off. That’s years of training!"

"If that’s true, then why the fuck didn’t he use it against that shit-faced Seeker?!"

Their voices overlapped in a mess of disbelief and speculation.

"I knew there was something weird about him! The relic’s hiding the real shit!"

"Hiding? It’s lying! A beggar? My ass!"

"Then explain why he’d let himself get beat down in that fight, huh?!"

"That doesn’t add up!"

"Maybe it’s strategy?"

"Bullshit! You don’t just ’strategize’ getting your face kicked in!"

The argument spiraled, growing louder and more ridiculous with each passing second.

At the front of the hall, Azeem, still sitting on the ground, palmed his forehead.

"Fools... That’s undoubtedly the Royal Sword style."

Noor had her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Hold on. That’s not possible. As far as I know, his guardian’s not of noble descent, and I’m sure he wasn’t a Banū Sulaymān either. None of them were missing around that time. Malik doesn’t have the background, the training, or the pedigree for something like that. So how—"

"Maybe he found a manual?"

Layla raised both eyebrows in a half-joking, half-serious way.

"You know, like that ’Magi for Dummies’ Grimoire."

"Madam Layla, please."

Roya pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You can’t just find THE Royal Sword style."

Layla snapped back, folding her arms:

"Well, excuse me for trying to make sense of the impossible."

While those two went on, Azeem was too busy muttering to himself, counting on his fingers.

"Okay, so there’s the stance, the timing, the counter-slash—that was at least three hallmarks of the style right there. And the way he baited that Qird? Textbook. I mean, what the Hell? That guardian of his must’ve known somehow."

"Forget the style for a second; he probably lucked off somewhere and got it."

Zafar cut in, his voice sounding more annoyed than he would’ve liked.

"He let them go ’cause they reminded him of Sinbad. The Villain’s already gone insane!"

"And?"

Safira shot back.

"It’s not like those two Qirds were gonna get up and start a revolution."

"It isn’t about that!"

He jabbed a finger towards the projection.

"You don’t let things go in the Maw. Not unless you want them coming back ten times worse."

"So what?"

"I’m saying that he’s trying to look kind, but he’s only making it worse for the other Seekers."

"..."

Safira glared at him dryly.

"...Maybe he’s just not as heartless as you... Hero."

Ignoring any rebuttal he might have, she turned, continuing to watch her teacher’s memories.

It seemed that even after all that happened, his luck hadn’t improved a single bit.

***

{Inside The Projection}

Malik hadn’t gotten far from the lighthouse before he felt it—a shift.

The air seemed to thicken, crawling up his back like a bad omen.

And it seemed that he wasn’t the only one who had felt that change.

The forest had gone quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves.

No critters scampering around, no distant growls, no whisper of the wind.

Just... silence.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

He’d just killed the top dog of this fiery monkey circus.

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The rest? Oh, they’d noticed.

"Of course~..."

Malik’s right hand hovered over his shamshir.

KIEEEEEEK! KIEEEEEEEEEEEEK! KIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Then came the sound.

An army of screeches and roars, each one more pissed off than the last.

Trees shook as the Qirds began pouring into the clearing.

Dozens of them, their flames painting the forest in shades of orange and red.

"Huh... Well, this escalated."

Before he could get another word out, the first Qird lunged at him—a burly one.

Malik sidestepped, swiping his blade across its side.

A clean hit, nearly ending its life, but before he could follow up...

KIEEEEEEK!

Two more Qirds rushed him, flanking him from both sides.

He ducked under one’s swipe, kicked it into the other, and quickly spun his blade around, striking back another two.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Four bodies hit the ground in quick succession.

Malik barely spared them a glance; instead, he used that moment to activate his only ability.

"Scorched Grace."

The words barely left his lips before his heat hit him like a rampaging bull.

It surged through him, veins glowing gold, and both arms blackened.

With a flick of his left hand, a small flame danced to life in his palm.

Then, without missing a beat, he cocked his fist back and punched the air.

A short burst of fire shot out, slamming straight into the closest Qird’s chest.

The thing staggered back, screeching like a banshee.

Kieeeeek!

Malik didn’t even get a second to enjoy the moment.

Another Qird darted in from the left, aiming straight for his ribs.

"Ah, Hell—"

He twisted just in time, his shamshir meeting its claws with a sharp clang.

Sparks flew as he shoved the beast back hard, knocking it off balance.

Before it could recover, he stepped in close, his palm igniting.

He slammed it into the Qird’s face with a solid WHOOMPH.

The flames exploded outward, swallowing its head in a fiery wreath. KIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

It flailed like a drunken idiot, crashing into a tree as Malik let out a dry chuckle.

"...Tough."

***

{Outside The Projection}

The hall exploded again.

Only metaphorically, of course.

"He’s C.O.L.D!"

"Seriously, just where did he learn that?!"

"He’s a beggar for fuck sake!"

"Even with a Grimoire or two, fighting like that is impossible."

"Yeah, you see that counter? He’s got experience."

"The Holy Relic is hiding shit from us!"

Their voices overlapped in an incoherent storm.

Shock, disbelief, confusion.

Some pointed wildly at the projection, and others gestured to each other, screaming.

Layla, looking proud, clapped her hands, barely stopping herself from laughing.

"Guess that’s what you can expect from a man like him."

Safira nodded in agreement, and Azeem couldn’t help but do so as well.

The others didn’t react much to her words, and, as expected, only Zafar was the outlier.

"Maybe that guardian of his stuffed him with Grimoires! Or relics!"

Their "hero" looked ready to burst a blood vessel, his screams doing his image no good.

"He has to have a Holy Relic or two boosting his skills!"

Layla rolled her eyes.

"No, that was pure technique. You saw the form."

Azeem waved them all down, trying to get them to shut up.

"Calm yourselves. You’re disturbing my viewing—"

"Enough!"

The hall fell silent so quickly as if someone had flipped a switch.

Not because someone yelled—plenty of that had been happening.

But because that one word came from someone they least expected.

Roya.

And while she only meant to silence the crowd, she interrupted those next to her as well.

Still, though, none of them said much about it, more interested in what she had to say.

"Do you all hear yourselves?"

Her voice was cold.

"A coalition of supposed experts, scholars, and warriors reduced to bickering children over a damned sword style."

"But—"

Zafar, ever the retard, started to pipe up.

But she shut him down with a glare so sharp it might’ve sliced him in two.

"No ’buts.’ You’re so caught up in your own egos, you can’t see what’s in front of you. Whether or not Malik is a beggar, a noble, or some interdimensional wildcard isn’t the point."

She gestured toward the dying Qirds.

"Here’s a thought. Maybe instead of dissecting every move he makes, you should learn from it. Or better yet—figure out how you’d survive in his place."

For once, no one dared argue.

"Now, shut up and watch. Or leave. I don’t care which."