Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 173: Black

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{Inside The Projection}

The man soon finished his speech.

It didn't take much, only about a minute or so.

When the crowd slowly began to disperse, Malik finally moved, pouncing on the man just as he stepped down from his makeshift podium.

...Figuratively speaking, of course.

"That was quite the speech."

The man looked up at him, sharp eyes studying him for a long moment before he grinned.

"Ah, a traveler with ears to listen. A rare thing these days."

"I try to keep an open mind."

"Do you?"

The man wiped his brow with a cloth, tucking it into his sleeve.

"Or do you simply seek entertainment?"

Malik shrugged.

"Maybe both. You have a name?"

"Faqir."

The man dusted off his robes.

"And you, Mister Pure Demon?"

"Sharp. Is it the clothes?"

Faqir nodded.

"It's far, but I doubt that it'd be a difficult journey for someone like you."

"Mhm. You're pretty smart."

"And you are dangerous... Never knew that it could be done alone."

"I didn't either."

"So, will you tell me?"

"Malik."

His brows lifted slightly, but he gave no further reaction.

Instead, he gestured toward the city around them.

"Tell me, Malik, do you know the nature of this conflict? Or have you only just arrived?"

"I know of Naser Al-Sultan, but not the rebels."

Faqir sighed and moved toward a quieter section of the open square.

"The rebels claim to fight for the people. They speak of justice, of freedom, of breaking the chains of tyranny. But their swords carve through the very people they claim to protect. Their fires do not warm, they consume."

Malik followed, arms still crossed.

"And the people? What do they say?"

Faqir chuckled.

"The forest was shrinking, but many trees kept voting for the axe. For the axe was clever and convinced the trees that because his handle was made of wood, he was one of them."

That answer made Malik show an appreciative nod.

"That's a good one."

"A sad one."

Faqir corrected.

"People only believe what they want to believe… convenient truths. The ones that are easiest to swallow."

"Like a bitter medicine covered in honey."

"Exactly."

Faqir studied Malik again, even longer this time.

"Most think themselves smart. Believing themselves above the average nobody. But they're wrong. You, however, are not one of them."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't blush."

Malik gave him a deadpan stare and Faqir's teasing quickly crawled back to where it came from.

"Khum!... I've figured you out at first glance. It had nothing to do with your unique fashion sense by the way... I just saw that you weren't a common traveler."

"How so?"

"It's pretty obvious in my line of work. Kind of hard not to notice when you're watching people all day."

"AND? Stop padding your words and just say it. This isn't a sermon."

Faqir chuckled and relented.

"There is weight in your stance, fire in your eyes. You are a man who has seen things most do not survive."

Malik ran a hand through his messy hair.

"...You could say that."

"Then you understand."

Faqir lowered his head.

"Truth is often an unwelcome guest in the minds of men. It's a tool to be used. These bastards figure out our deepest dreams and sell us an illusion that feels just like the real thing. Every ruler plays the same game—promise paradise, deliver ruin. Some just make it look prettier along the way."

Malik sighed, looking out over the bustling city.

"And you're saying that Nasir's ruin is prettier?"

"I am. It's much prettier."

"Hm. So, what now? You just speak and hope they listen?"

"I remind them."

Faqir said simply.

"I plant seeds of doubt in the lies they are fed. If enough seeds grow, perhaps one day, they will see the forest for what it truly is. They will see that our only salvation is with God."

"Not the Twelvers? Templar? Originists?"

"Men are imperfect. God is not."

Malik nodded a second time, thoughtful.

"...What if they don't listen?"

Faqir smiled sadly.

"Then the axe will keep swinging."

Malik shook his head.

"You're an interesting man, Faqir."

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"And you are a peculiar traveler, Malik."

Before he could go on—

Hoot!

A familiar sound rang out.

Malik turned, watching as Black swooped down, landing on a wooden post nearby.

He hooted once, watching him with those knowing eyes.

"We'll talk later."

Malik waved him away.

The owl ruffled his feathers in response and hooted twice—louder this time—clearly unimpressed.

He was the tiny judge, jury, and executioner.

"Really?"

Yes, really.

To make his point clearer, he let out one last hoot!

A SOUND OF JUDGEMENT.

Faqir snorted.

"Your carrier owl does not approve."

Malik sighed.

"He's dramatic."

"No, he is loyal."

Malik turned back to Faqir.

"What do you think I should name him?"

Faqir raised a brow, giving him a disappointed look.

"He's that loyal, and you didn't name him already?!"

"I called him by color. Simple is good, no?"

Black hooted again—louder, more indignant.

A full-blown condemnation.

Faqir chuckled.

"Even your owl is smart, huh?... And well, he disagrees."

Malik rolled his eyes.

"Alright, alright, what do you think?"

Before Faqir could answer, Black turned to him and let out a softer hoot—almost like a plea. "Ah, see? He's begging for mercy."

Malik smirked.

"He's being dramatic."

Black snapped his beak and hooted in rapid succession—his version of a heated argument.

Faqir burst out laughing, unable to take it anymore.

"You're getting scolded by a bird, my friend!"

Malik sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Fine! I'll think of something later; now shoo!"

Black straightened his feathers, clearly satisfied, and took off with a triumphant flap of his wings.

Faqir shook his head, amused.

"Give that bird a real name, will you?"

Ignoring his new friend, Malik watched Black fade into the skyline.

His smirk faded with him, slipping off his face bit by bit.

While he didn't act like it, he was thankful for the teasing.

Without the bird, he knew smiling would be an impossible dream.

Black was annoying, sure. Judgmental. Loud. A downright menace when he wanted to be. But without him, the silence in Malik's life would be unbearable.

Because after all... only he had color.

In a world of absolute, unchanging gray, only Black was, well, black.

The only thing without illusion.

Not a cursed image of a creature, but the creature itself.

Real. Grounded. Tangible.

Because with one glance over, he saw Faqir's face, and that was far from normal.

That was an alien in human skin.

Not just strange, not just different, but fundamentally wrong.

His basic features were human, sure—two eyes, a nose, a mouth—but everything else?

All wrong.

The proportions were off.

Like an artist had drawn a perfect face but got the math completely wrong.

Like they started out with a masterpiece in mind but lost control of their own hand halfway through.

Everything was just off in ways that made Malik's brain itch.

One hand looked normal until you noticed the other was just too big.

One eye sat a little lower than the other. And that nose? That thing was long. Almost like it was stretching when he wasn't looking, reaching for the floor like it had somewhere to be.

The more Malik stared, the worse it got.

Light unnaturally hit his skin... it just wasn't reflecting the way it should.

His movements were smooth, but not in the way a person's should be—more like something pretending to be human, a puppet whose strings were just barely visible if you knew where to look.

Malik's mind kept trying to correct the image, to make sense of it, but it couldn't.

And, of course, it wasn't just Faqir.

It was everyone.

Every single person in this city, in this world, was like this.

Malik never knew them to be real unless he reached out and touched them.

It was why he was so touchy-touchy even with strangers.

Unless he felt the warmth of their skin, the solid weight of their existence.

Without that, they might as well be ghosts. Figments of his imagination.

That was bad enough, and yet, that still wasn't all.

At times they showed themselves as the Depraved.

Imaglimiations of Corruption.

Those were the worst.

Malik had nothing to say or even think about them.

It was just that terrible of a sight.

He tried to act normal. He really did. But no matter how much he forced himself to play along, to move like he belonged, that doubt never left him.

It sat heavy on his skull, pulling his brows into a never-leaving frown.

Since that day and another... their deaths and her goodbye...

Malik had lost all color.

Now only Black remained.

He... he had left the void, but it didn't leave him.