Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 260: Fourth Complacency

As Malik fluttered his eyes open...

Thump.

He found himself surrounded by an expanse of complete darkness.

It stretched out in all directions, an eternal void that seemed to devour all traces of light.

There were no discernible features or landmarks to anchor his perception, leaving him suspended in a disorienting emptiness.

Beneath his feet, the realm seemed to be the same, devoid of anything and everything.

It was as if he stood upon an abyssal plane, where even the concept of solid ground dissolved into nothingness.

Malik extended his arm, hoping to find or at least brush against something tangible, but his hand went through the darkness, feeling no signs of resistance.

This absence of sensation might've made one feel lost... but this was Malik.

He saw no problem with the void; it certainly wasn't the first time he interacted with it, and it certainly wasn't the worst thing he went through.

There were far worse candidates than this.

"But... now what?"

As soon as his voice fell heavy, failing to echo in the vast emptiness around him, a sudden shift took place, as if in response to his rhetorical question.

Blink.

The world stumbled.

Malik found himself inside a tent. A war room. Before a big oval table, surrounded by floor sofas.

The change was so smooth it almost tricked him into thinking he'd never been in the void.

And somehow, he found this tent very familiar, as if he had been here millions of times, perhaps more.

But more importantly:

He was not alone.

Across from him sat a man.

Blue eyes. A well-kept beard. A face that walked the line between rugged and handsome. The kind of face Malik knew he'd seen before—somewhere—but his mind didn't spit out the answer immediately.

Right, he felt like he saw it... he could see his face. His face could be SEEN.

There was no distortion. No Corruption. No monstrous mask.

This, before him, was just a man.

Who was he?

Malik blinked, his expression as flat as stone.

The man smiled softly, folding his hands on his lap.

"Peace upon you, Stranger… Malik… How have you been?"

Malik took one step forward, boots making no sound on the floor, and his answer came cold:

"Fine."

Somewhat surprised, the man let out a soft chuckle and then shook his head.

"Fate did you dirty, son."

His eyes crinkled with warmth.

"I apologize in its stead."

"..."

Malik didn't bother replying.

He didn't seem to care.

"Who are you?"

The man raised a brow, head tilting like a curious cat.

"Me? I'm the first of your four complacencies, son. Call me Hassan. I tire of the name Nasir… At least in death, I wish that to change."

Malik nodded once.

"Why are you important to me, Hassan?"

That made the man light up like dawn.

His smile bloomed wide across his face, laugh lines deepening.

"Oh? Am I important to you? That's news to me."

He gave a short laugh.

"You always acted so standoffish with me. Always thought you'd kill me in my sleep during the war."

Thump.

For the first time, Malik's brows lifted—just slightly.

A flicker of recognition had rippled through the frost in his eyes.

"…The war? You… it's you."

Hassan nodded slowly, eyes soft.

"Yeah, it's me."

His voice gentled, and something almost fragile slipped into his tone.

"How's my wolf, by the way? Does my cloak fit him? Yellow's kind of wacky, but I always thought it'd suit him more. And did people start calling him Nasir yet? Didn't have enough time to teach him everything, unfortunately, so… I'm afraid for my people."

Malik's face remained blank.

"…I don't know any son."

For a split second, Hassan froze, then let out a long breath.

"That's good… that's good…"

He rubbed his face, laughing softly into his palm.

"He's not a part of this 'complacency,' then. He's not dead."

"..."

Malik continued to stare.

Watching the man, not blinking.

His mind had ticked—why was this figment of imagination, or perhaps a recreation of a man hidden in his subconscious, so smart...? This alive? It was almost like he was talking to the man himself.

"…Do you want me to send a message?"

Hassan's eyes flicked up, smiling too.

"Even now you're kind to me, son…"

He shook his head, standing slowly, dusting off his hands.

"I'm honored to be a man that stood beside you."

His gaze softened.

"Please, excuse me for all my faults. I have wronged you, but never out of malice. You've made a choice… and you'll continue to make them. Now you have the strength to do so."

His voice dropped lower, a hint of sorrow flickering at the edges.

"Soon, you'll stand in a position much higher than mine… I only hope that any such decision never falls upon you again."

Hassan lowered his head, murmured something too soft to catch, and then faded away.

The tent did so alongside him, the walls bleeding out into the dark, the ground giving way.

Blink.

The world lurched.

Malik's boots touched down lightly on something solid.

Warm air. The faint smell of spices and smoke. Faint creaks of wood.

He was inside a house.

Again, it was not just any house, but a deeply familiar one.

Malik calmly stood there, letting his gaze roam across the room.

This time, he figured it out faster.

He wasn't alone.

In front of him were two people.

An old man. And a child, maybe half his height, maybe twelve years old, clinging to the old man's sleeve.

Malik watched them like he did the last person, not asking anything as anyone would in his situation.

He just waited.

The old man's face twisted, tight with... sorrow? Guilt?

Malik wasn't sure. His heart didn't really do emotions the way it used to.

The child was much the same, his eyes shimmering, lips trembling on the edge of a sob.

"…?"

But before a single word could think of leaving his mouth—

"Brother!"