Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

{Outside The Projection}

The projection paused.

The world did so along with it.

For a moment, men, women, and children...

People of all walks of life, seekers and merchants, beggars and nobles...

They all stood in silence.

The world mimicked their recent showing, only better.

They were absolutely and utterly stunned.

Many had forgotten how to breathe.

...What a story.

What a life.

"Haaa—!"

A sharp exhale echoed in the hall.

A sniffle followed.

A quiet muttering of words too soft to hear.

And, just like that, the spell they were under broke.

"That..."

The scarred woman covered her mouth, amber eyes shining with unshed tears.

"That was—"

"—Damn tragic."

A grizzled old man finished for her, rubbing at his eyes as if sand had suddenly gotten into them.

"But... God help me, it was beautiful."

Emotions, which were bottled up throughout the entirety of that... story, were finally let loose, running wild.

Some wept openly, wiping their faces with their sleeves, while others held their trembling heads down, their gazes lost.

"He... he survived."

A younger man spoke with something like wonder.

"His 'fire' was 'lit,' just like that."

"Not just like that."

The silver-bearded man shook his head.

"His forgiveness didn't come easy. You saw the way his wife looked at him. The way his son held onto his hand. That's not something you give to a man who hasn't gone through Hell."

"He deserved to suffer more."

Came a bitter voice from the side.

A lean man with a scar over one eye sneered.

"You all forget—he stole from them. Let them starve while he uselessly drowned himself in filth. And then what? A few tears, a few broken words, and suddenly he's redeemed? No. Life doesn't work like that."

"Maybe not for you."

A familiar old man countered.

"But for them? That was enough."

"How?"

The scarred man scoffed.

"How can that be enough?"

"Because he's still alive. And he chose to stand."

The old man's voice was quiet, but it carried weight.

"You saw it, didn't you? That moment. The moment he held his son's hand back. That was a choice. A man who had given up would have let go. But he didn't. They knew that."

The scarred man opened his mouth to argue, but no words came.

He turned away, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists.

It seemed that this hit home in some way.

A way that hit deep. Real deep.

"Hahaha... haha..."

A small laugh, wet and choked, broke through the heavy atmosphere.

"...We're standing here, arguing about a man who's already dead."

"Still... he was real."

A young woman, wrapped in a traveler's cloak, wiped at her eyes.

"Too real. It was like we were standing right there with him. Feeling what he felt. Seeing what he saw. The hunger, the shame, the hopelessness. And then the warmth, the forgiveness... the choice to live."

She shivered.

"That's not just any ordinary memory."

That, at last, drew the attention of the more jaded among them, the ones who, unlike earlier, remained jaded.

A man leaning against a pillar, dressed in fine robes, hummed thoughtfully.

"He's a skilled Soothsayer."

"Obviously."

Another man scoffed.

"No average memory has that kind of depth."

The first man nodded his head.

"He made the Sultan relive those memories. Embody the past Faqir."

At those words, a ripple of... confirmation passed through the crowd.

They suspected that Malik had Embodied the memory, like how most of them had Embodied their paths, becoming what their Divine Essence asked of them.

But to some, it was a surprising revelation.

"Soothsayers can do that?!"

"That's…"

A second muttered.

"That's terrifying."

"And impressive."

A third added.

"...I wonder—when did he learn?"

"Better question..."

The scarred woman revealed a knowing smirk.

"...Why did he?"

Murmurs started up again, speculation buzzing like insects.

The tragedy of the story had shaken them, but this?

This had them curious.

No Soothsayer could reach that level without years of practice. Without pain. Without sacrifice. And if this Soothsayer could craft something so powerful, so heartbreakingly real… then what had he been through to get there?

Nobody had an answer.

And it didn't seem like they ever would.

This was Malik's story, and though it had derailed for a short while, that didn't change.

It simply showed just how high he held this man in his heart.

He remembered his past to the last detail even after all these years.

Sure, he had forgotten the names of the man's children. The wife as well. Her face was a little blurry. The restaurant's name? Gone. Small things, almost insignificant. Especially so when compared to what actually mattered. But everything else?

Everything else was still there, clear as day. As if he had lived it just yesterday.

A memory engrained.

...Malik, without a doubt, had loved this man.

Anyone watching could see it. Everyone did see it.

It even made some of them envious, though they'd never admit that.

At least not to people other than themselves. They had an image to uphold after all.

Meanwhile, in the back, away from the murmurs of the softened crowd, another group stood in tense silence.

They weren't watching the projection anymore.

Not entirely.

They were watching him.

THE dumbass.

Pity settled in their chests like stones.

Heavy.

They had known him for his loud mouth and shameless bravado.

But now?

Now they knew.

Now they had seen where he came from.

Sure, they had only seen a small child but they knew that it was him.

Their features matched. Black hair, average face, average eyes, and the same small nose.

His father—Faqir—and Malik, were on good terms.

Something else must have happened between them.

It wasn't clear, not yet, but there was a lot more to this.

Such a conclusion was obvious.

Even more so when one looked at THE dumbass.

The way bitterness curled at the edges of his lips, the way his fingers twitched as if grasping for something long lost.

He was angry, enraged, but also... envious.

Not of the suffering—no sane man would envy that—but of what Malik had become.

They had started the same, hadn't they?

Born into the same dirt, into the same hunger, into the same fight for survival.

And yet, look at what Malik had achieved.

Malik had clawed his way up, alone, scraping against fate with bloodied fingers, forcing the world to remember his name.

His promise was fulfilled.

And THE dumbass?

He was still this.

A fool.

A clown.

A disappointment.

Their statuses were as far apart as life and death.

Many related to him but most continued to look at him with pity.

Such a reaction would've brought any other embarrassment, maybe anger.

And yet...

"I am my father's son. I am Faqir."

Faqir did not care what they thought.

He did not care for their pity.

He did not care for their silent judgments.

He did not even care if they understood him.

Because all he wanted to do was stare at the projection with longing.

Faqir, son of Faqir, loved his father... and his father died at the hands of Malik.

This before him revealed that Malik held great respect for his father.

So... like any before him, only one question remained.

"Why?"