Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 121: A Man’s Failure

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{Inside The Projection}

The bandits were coming in from the front in a file-like manner.

Malik needed to care of them just as they arrived, otherwise, he’d be overwhelmed.

"Die!"

Their first swung at him with an axe, heavy, reckless.

Malik sidestepped.

His curved sword flashed once before it was painted red.

The bandit’s charge never finished.

He stumbled past Malik, his legs buckling, eyes confused—until his throat split open, spilling a dark, wet gasp onto the dirt.

The second tried to grab him, reaching—mistake.

Malik twisted, used their own momentum to yank them forward, and his steel bit spine.

A shudder. A strangled grunt. The body slumped.

But there was no time to watch them fall.

Another was already coming. A spear lunging for his heart.

Malik spun. His blade cut the air in an arc—sparks screamed as their weapons met.

Then—a snap.

The spear’s shaft broke in two.

Before the wielder could blink, Malik drove his sword through their gut and ripped it free, flame bursting from the wound.

Three dead.

The fourth swung a sword the size of a cleaver.

A bad swing. Too much strength, not enough control.

Malik ducked. The weapon whooshed overhead.

He punished the mistake. A low sweep, his curved blade carving through the bandit’s thigh—tendon severed, bone scraped.

"AHHHHHHHHH!"

A scream.

Malik rose, sword wreathed in fire, and plunged it through their chest.

’Four.’

A dagger whipped toward him from the side.

Malik barely tilted his head, and it missed by a hair.

He caught the wrist, twisted, and heard a snap. Then shoved the same dagger into their eye.

’Five.’

A club crashed down.

Malik raised his sword, one hand bracing the flat, catching the blow like an iron pillar.

Surprisingly, the sheer force sent shockwaves through his arms. But he did not falter, driving his knee into the bastard’s ribs.

He heard the crunch. Felt the breath rush from their lungs. Then he stepped forward and slammed his blade through their collarbone, splitting muscle from bone.

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’Six.’

More came.

A blade whipped at his ribs.

Malik leaned back, arcing just beyond its reach—then drove his elbow into the attacker’s face, smashing their nose into ruin.

One clean stroke. Their head tumbled from their shoulders.

’Seven.’

A shield bashed toward him—fast. Malik had no time to dodge.

Instead, he took the hit. Let it push him backward—but not before he flicked his wrist.

A thin, blazing arc followed.

The shield-bearer staggered. Blinked. Then his throat spilled open.

’Eight.’

Two more. Coming from opposite sides.

Malik inhaled.

Exhaled.

His curved blade turned even darker, heat warping the air around it.

Schwing!

It whirled, carving a burning crescent through the air.

A feint. A step. Steel met flesh.

’Nine.’

He turned on the last. A flash of terrified eyes, desperate steel.

Malik parried the strike, his blade dragging fire across the enemy’s sword, sparks blooming. Then, he closed the distance.

His free hand grabbed their face.

Flames roared.

The bandit screamed, or at least tried to—but not for long.

’Ten.’

Malik let the charred husk drop, his breath steady. And, slowly, he turned.

The battlefield wasn’t empty. Far from it. The bandits seemed endless in number.

Yet he wasn’t affected by that. Not in the least. Calmly, he raised his sword and brought his left hand to his lower back.

"Scorched Grace."

The steel got even hotter, its runes pulsing.

"You will fall."

...

Malik’s breath came rough, his blade slick with death, charred ground beneath him.

He had killed many of them—ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, yet more kept coming. And more of their own died not so far away from him.

This battle was a lost cause.

Winning was just not possible.

All they could achieve was survival, and even that was up to question.

Malik was on his last legs. Those bastards had more Magi than he expected.

Sure, now that they were less of their own around him, he could use his ability more openly without the risk of killing them, but that didn’t mean shit if their enemies never stopped rushing him.

"Die already!"

Another came at him, a jagged spear coated with ice thrusting for his ribs.

Malik sidestepped and brought his sword down in an arc. The curved steel sheared through the shaft, reaching flesh and bone.

A head hit the dirt before the body did.

The next fool lunged wildly, an axe swinging for his chest.

Malik ducked, his blade flashing up. A single cut. Deep.

The bandit’s stomach split open, intestines spilling as he crumpled forward, shrieking.

"Dumb bastards—"

Whoosh!

A blur came from behind.

He reacted too late. Pain. White-hot, sharp.

A dagger had been rammed into his shoulder—the same one that special arrow had struck earlier.

"Grrrraaagh!"

Malik’s body jerked as a ragged snarl tore from his throat, fresh agony blooming through his nerves, the wound ripping open further.

"Hahaha! We got you now!"

The bastard behind him pushed down on the blade, trying to drive it deeper.

"FUCK! OFF!"

Malik roared, throwing his weight backward.

The impact sent them both staggering, but the dagger wrenched free, tearing flesh and tendon.

Blood gushed.

Malik twisted, ignoring the pain, and drove his sword backward—a sickening crunch.

The bandit choked, a blade buried through his ribs, then slumped, dead.

"Piece of sh—"

Interrupting his words was a cold pain that erupted in his left thigh.

His breath hitched, eyes snapping down—an icicle, buried deep, frost creeping along the torn flesh. The burn of it was worse than fire.

His leg buckled.

’No.’

He caught himself, forcing weight onto his good leg, fingers already wrapping around the icy intruder.

His grip was iron, his expression feral.

With a sharp yank—

Shhk!

The icicle tore free, dragging a spray of blood with it, hot against the frozen wound.

Malik barely flinched. Just clicked his tongue, irritation flashing behind his wild eyes.

With no time to breathe, he dodged the incoming icicles, his fingers tightening around his sword.

Heat rippled through the blade as he thrust forward, fire erupting in an explosive burst.

It was a snarling tongue of flame that licked through the air, melting every attack before searing straight through the bastard’s skull.

His head barely had time to melt before he hit the dirt.

Whoosh!

The next bandit rushed him stealthily as his mate, likely using some sort of camouflage ability.

Malik parried—but he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, his wounds sapping his strength.

A knee to his gut sent him staggering.

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Another blow slammed into his side—a club, this time.

He nearly dropped his sword.

The tide was turning. Too many. Too fast. Too wounded.

Then—just at the edge of his vision, by a rock in the distance...

’NO!’

He saw it.

The next part of their tragedy.

Ali Baba stood before Layla, surrounded by ten bandits.

He acted as a wall between her and death... but that wall...

It wasn’t impregnable... he was struck.

A blade rammed into his gut.

Malik’s world slowed to a crawl.

It seemed that he had forgotten whose daughter she was.

This... it was his fault.

He should’ve made sure that she’d never step foot out here.

He should’ve made sure. He should’ve... but he failed.

Ali Baba had trusted him. Completely, fully. Handed over the most precious thing in his life with nothing but faith that Malik would protect her.

And now?

Malik could only watch.

Watch as Ali Baba’s fingers loosened around his staff, grip failing him.

Watch as realization dawned in his eyes, shock sinking deep, deeper than the blade in his stomach.

Watch as his legs buckled beneath him, strength giving out, his body folding.

’...’

’...’

’...’

Ali Baba fell.