Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 154: Two Forms Of Hate

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{Outside The Projection}

The hall was quiet.

Not confused—no, not at all.

If anything, it was the opposite.

They had all expected this in some way or another.

Sure, it was extremely sudden, but that was also expected.

At least in some capacity...

After all, they had already established the projection's mannerisms.

The first trial to reach the Valley of The Unseen was always the same.

Jinn-whispered dreams, twisted and gilded in false gold.

And every soul in this hall had walked through them before.

The only difference?

Their dreams had been grander. Bigger. Wilder.

Kingdoms in their grasp. Power beyond reckoning. The world kneeling at their feet.

But Malik's?

His dream had been simple.

A life without loss.

A family that stayed.

A past that never shattered.

And that—that was what made it so much worse.

Magi didn't even seem to exist in his whispered dream.

Huda let out a breath, slow and shuddering, her fingers gripping the hem of her dress's sleeve. She looked small, smaller than she ever let herself be, shoulders drawn in, her usually sharp tongue nowhere to be found.

Some part of her expected such a dream. Had known it'd happen—of course she had known—but watching it unfold was different. Watching Malik live in it, unaware of the illusion, laughing, laughing, was worse than anything she had braced for.

Safira was the exact same... only her emotions ran deeper.

No—deeper wasn't the right word. Darker. Sharper. Louder.

She despised this.

DESPISED it.

She hated seeing him there, in that dream, in that perfect world where nothing had gone wrong, where everything had stayed the same.

She hated how happy he looked. How fucking peaceful. How at ease, like the weight of the world had never touched his shoulders.

Like he had never hurt anyone.

Like he had never taken from anyone.

Like he had never taken from her.

She wanted to scream.

No, she wanted to tear it apart. That dream. That illusion. Him.

How dare he? How dare he?!

If he wanted them together—if he wanted them to live as family—then why? WHY?!

'Why did he kill my fucking family?!'

Why did he cut them down, one by one? Why did he burn them out of existence, like they were nothing? Like their lives meant nothing?

He said that it was war.

He said that it was necessary.

He said that it wasn't personal.

But it was personal to her.

It would always be personal to her.

She still saw their faces in her dreams.

Every night.

The way she found them. The way their blood pooled across the sand, soaking into the earth like it had always been meant to.

There had been so many. So, so many.

Beasts of men who had fought at Malik's side.

Uncle Jafar, throat cut, his body slumped against the wall, the victory cry still caught in his throat.

Jamal, his second-in-command, had his head twisted at an impossible angle, eyes wide, unseeing.

Farid, her senior in the militia, was stabbed through his gut, still standing, still reaching for her... reaching for the exit.

Adil, his blood brother in all but name, lay face half-buried in the dirt, his own blade still clutched in his hand.

Saif, who had laughed the loudest in the heat of battle, chest split open, smile frozen in death.

Bahir, who had promised to teach her how to fight like a man, throat run red.

Karim, who had held the banner high, who had shouted victory until his voice cracked—until it was silenced by steel.

Zaid, who had lifted her up when she joined, who had told her she was family, who had believed in Malik more than anyone else—until Malik cut him down, too.

She had been so happy.

So fucking happy.

The battle had been won. Their enemy broken.

Malik, the man she trusted, the man she followed, the man they all followed, had led them to victory.

She had run to celebrate, laughter bubbling in her throat.

And then—then...

They were all dead.

They were supposed to be alive.

They were supposed to be alive!

But they weren't.

All the men that led the charge.

All the men who had trusted him.

All the men who had fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, blade to blade.

Her family. Her home. Her blood.

Gone.

Their bodies littered the sand, fresh with the scent of blood, the warmth of battle still clinging to their skin.

And Malik stood among them.

Alive.

Untouched.

Blade wet with the blood of his own.

She stumbled, the world tilting.

No. No, this wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

She had been celebrating.

They had won.

They—Malik had done this.

It was all because of him.

Because of the man standing in that projection, smiling like he was good. Like he was pure. Like he deserved to be happy.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

This reminded her of her hatred.

It made her hate him more than words could hold, more than rage could carry, more than anything she had ever known.

Sure, sure, the first time she had misunderstood. He hadn't abandoned her that time.

But this time?

There was no mistake.

This time, he abandoned her.

Left her behind. Left her to rot. Left her to grieve alone, as if she hadn't already lost enough.

And now, here he was.

Living. Laughing. Dreaming.

Like he deserved to.

Her breath was ragged.

Her vision blurred.

Her body ached.

But none of it mattered.

Nothing could change the past.

And Layla—

Layla was stone.

A statue carved from regret, her eyes locked onto the paused projection.

It wasn't the dream that made her stomach turn.

It was the way Malik smiled in it.

Not the sharp smirk she had come to expect, not the half-exasperated, half-fond curve of his lips when Ali Baba was being an ass.

No, it was an easy smile.

A foolishly bright, foolishly kind smile.

One that belonged to someone who hadn't spent hundreds of thousands of years carving their way through blood and betrayal.

A smile she had seen on him only once before—just before their goodbye.

Her grip tightened, nails pressing crescent moons into her palm.

Because she had been in that dream.

Because she had been different.

Because he had been different.

"Of all things…"

It was a sad scene.

A man who, of all the things he could have dreamed of, had only wished for something that had once been real.

And then, it was stolen from him.

Again.

The bearded man beside Layla—one of the few who'd likely be seen in the projection later on—sighed, crossing his arms.

"That's what makes it cruel."

Huda glanced at him, frowning.

He gestured toward the mirage as it fully bled away.

"These whispers… they pull out what's deepest in your heart. Twist it, dress it up, make it look real. Most people—" he glanced at the others in the hall, at the ones who had once dreamed of gold and thrones, "—fall to greed. To power. To something they never had."

He turned back toward the projection, toward the broken man standing before the dunes.

"But him?"

He exhaled sharply.

"He only wanted what he lost."

Silence.

Layla swallowed, throat tight.

She hated this. Hated every second of it.

She hated the way her stomach twisted, hated the way she couldn't look away, hated the way her hands shook.

Most of all, she hated the way it made her wonder.

If she had never—

If she had stayed—

If she had been better—

Would he have had to dream at all?