Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 216: Let The Man Be

Duban and Safira didn't say anything for a long time.

Neither did Malik.

All three of them just stood there, looking at each other.

What threw them off—Hell, probably scared them more than if he'd yelled—was that Malik didn't look angry. Not even a little. No clenched fists, no raised voice, no heat in his expression.

Nothing.

And that 'nothing?'

That hit way harder than any outburst ever could.

It was like they weren't even worth the trouble of being mad at.

Like he'd already put them in some box in his head labeled {Over.}

Duban opened his mouth, then closed it.

Safira took a step forward, then hesitated.

Both of them wanted to say something, anything, to fix it—but there was no fixing this.

Malik finally moved... though it wasn't much of a 'move.'

He rested his arms on his knees and stared at the ground.

Then, without looking up, he spoke:

"Just tell me the state of things."

Safira flinched like he'd struck her.

Duban sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Brother, listen—"

"State of things."

Malik cut him off, looking up now.

His face was blank.

"I didn't ask for an apology."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

Duban clenched his jaw.

He and Safira shared a look before finally relenting.

"...Fine."

Duban's shoulders sagged.

"We'll start from the beginning."

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and began:

"A-alright, so... look, we had our Jinn spread out. Thin. My father here, another one there, posted at chokepoints, key villages, mines—wherever the enemy might've pushed. And we kept moving them around as the enemy Jinn tried to outsmart us. Just trying to hold things together without losing ground."

He paused, eyes flicking to Malik.

"..."

No reaction.

Duban swallowed and pushed on:

"When word got out about Zamharir—when people started whispering you were the one who took him out? Shit, man. You should've seen their faces. The 'rebels' started flinching at your name, like even the thought of you might jump out and gut them."

"But they didn't fold."

Safira added, stepping in, voice much quieter than usual.

"That's the thing. They got scared, yeah, but fear made them reckless. They started hitting harder, throwing everything they had."

Duban nodded quickly.

"Right, yeah—kept forcing our hand. Made it damn hard to gain any real ground. We have been pushing them back, but nowhere near fast enough. First day, we took about thirty percent of the region, snap, just like that. Blitzed it. But after that? Crawling. Four weeks and we've only managed to push to fifty."

"And we've bled for every inch."

Safira's tone had turned flat.

"Lost three cohorts in Burah alone. Got ambushed. Supplies are running thin. People are tired."

Duban shifted, scratching at his arm.

"And the enemy's still got a grip on most of the key spots—the Silk Road, mines, water hubs. They're not letting go easy."

Safira shook her head.

"And we haven't been able to kill any of their Jinn. Not one. Our own are holding the line, but that's it. No breakthroughs."

There was a beat of silence.

Malik hadn't moved.

Then, Duban leaned forward slightly, watching him carefully.

"But now that you're back…"

He started, voice softer, like he wasn't sure how it'd land.

"That… that changes everything."

Malik's frown deepened, and Duban cleared his throat.

"I mean—look. You took down your Jinn. That means theirs are down to five now. Five, that's it."

He gestured wide like he was laying it all out on a map only he could see.

"And with our Jinn still standing, that means you can move freely without worrying about some bastard showing up to counter you."

Safira nodded.

"We need you on the battlefield. You're the only one who can tear through their defenses before they know what hit them. And if you hit the right place, we could finally—"

"Where?"

Malik interrupted.

They both paused.

He looked between them.

"Which place needs me the most?"

Duban and Safira exchanged another glance.

Then, almost in unison, they pointed east.

"Al-Saffra."

Malik followed the direction of their fingers, staring off into the distance for a long moment.

Then, he pushed himself off the crate, stretched his shoulders, and rolled his neck.

Slowly, he turned back to them and nodded once.

"I understand."

Without saying another word, he walked away.

The two stood there, unsure of what had just happened.

Was that "I understand" a response to what they asked of him? Or was it for them "abandoning" him? His acceptance of it?

Hell if they knew.

And Malik sure as shit wasn't going to explain.

He was already done thinking about them.

His mind was on something else.

First stop? A priest.

His current priority was to heal up.

After that? He'd take a damn bath, a long one.

He hated being this filthy. Made his skin crawl in disgust.

Oh, and new clothes. His current ones were nearly a war crime.

...

Malik's new boots crunched against the sand as he stepped out of a packed building.

The village was quiet, mostly—just a low murmur of voices in the background—but he wasn't listening. His mind was already gone, miles away, thinking about the road east, the next mess.

But then, a voice pulled him back.

Familiar voices. Too familiar to ignore.

A duo he had never expected to hear, especially not here.

Faqir and Yusuf.

The father sat in a ditch, his back against a weathered stone wall, legs stretched out before him. His son was nestled close, leaning against him, kicking idly at the sand.

This struck Malik as odd—almost surreal.

Faqir, here, in this war? Why? And most importantly, how?

Who healed them?... Or not. It was likely the militia.

Perhaps as a perk bonus for signing up to die.

Finding that explanation adequate, he approached.

"Hey, Faqir."

The older man looked up, and his lips curled into a small smile.

"Ah, Malik. Hm? Your little... disguise? Confused me a bit."

His voice was steady, as if meeting here was the most natural thing in the world.

"Didn't expect to see you so soon."

Malik glanced at Yusuf, who stared at him with wide eyes, before looking back at the father.

"Why are you here?"

Faqir sighed, shifting slightly to get more comfortable.

"Protection."

Malik's frown deepened to the max.

"So this's the best solution you've found?"

Faqir chuckled.

"The only one... And well, I care not for me. Only them."

He ruffled Yusuf's hair.

"If I were to die, Nasir Al-Sultan would make sure my family is cared for. That was the deal. A simple exchange."

Malik didn't respond right away.

He perfectly understood that kind of logic.

He would likely have done the same if he were in his situation.

"Hm."

Malik gave a slow nod, accepting the answer.

"What role do you play? What battles have you fought in?"

Faqir waved a hand dismissively.

"Ah, here and there. Nothing much. My spells barely work in situations like this; even mortals are a bit of a struggle... I can tell you more if you like."

Yusuf, however, had no interest in his father's stories.

His gaze was locked onto Malik, excitement brimming in his features.

"What about you? We heard the stories! Everyone has! Especially—"

His voice rose to a near shout.

"The Night of the Kitten!"

Malik blinked, apparently only now hearing such a title.

"…The what?"

"The Night of the Kitten!"

Yusuf practically bounced where he sat.

"When you fought alone against thousands! Played them like mice! Cut them down by the tens in the dark! They say you moved so fast that the enemy thought you were a ghost!"

Malik shook his head.

"That's what they're calling it?"

Faqir smirked.

"People love a good tale."

Malik almost found it funny. Almost.

The way they admired killing as if it were some spectacle....

He had seen what battle truly was—what it did to men.

There was no glory in it. Only necessity.

Still, he didn't crush the boy's excitement.

Instead, he just sighed, something that he had caught himself doing a lot lately.

"It wasn't like that."

Yusuf pouted.

"But—"

"Stories grow in the telling."

Malik cut in.

"That's all."

The boy looked like he wanted to argue, but Faqir put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let the man be, Yusuf."

Malik let the silence hang for a moment before he straightened.

He had a job to do.

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"I need to go."

Faqir gave him a knowing look.

"East, then?"

Malik nodded.

"Al-Saffra."

Faqir's smile turned a little sad.

"Brother... take care of yourself."

Malik glanced down at Yusuf, who still looked ready to burst with excitement, then back at the older man.

"You too."

He turned and walked away, toward battle once more.