Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 54: Ghost

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{Inside The Projection}

It had been weeks, perhaps even months, of Malik sneaking and fighting his way to Ghabeh.

The journey wasn’t a straight shot—it never was in this cursed land.

Once he passed the river, there never came a day where he didn’t spot a few Seekers.

They were everywhere, increasing in number the closer he got to the north.

Malik avoided them like the plague, sticking to the underbrush, crouching low, and just generally avoiding any open routes.

And the monsters?

Yeah, they weren’t much better.

A couple of them had even been bold enough to attack him.

The first was some kind of oversized lizard with a face full of spikes.

It lunged at him from underneath, hidden deep in the ground.

Fast for sure, but Malik’s shamshir was faster, slashing through its thick hide like butter.

The second was a bit worse—a towering mantis with claws the size of his arms.

That fight had left him with a torn sleeve and a long, shallow cut on his forearm.

Nothing life-threatening, but it stung like Hell.

Still, he made it.

Finally.

The towering mushrooms of Ghabeh loomed ahead of him.

Their massive caps glowed faintly, like pale lanterns in perpetual twilight.

A beautiful sight, one that he didn’t bother to admire.

"...Alright."

He took his first steps into the eerily quiet forest.

The air hit him immediately—damp, thick with the tang of wet earth and something electric.

Aether, no doubt.

It buzzed faintly in his veins, stronger here than anywhere else he’d been.

A feeling more comfortable than he’d like to admit.

’Straight. Then left.’

The map burned in his mind, guiding his every step.

He moved carefully, his feet light, his breaths shallow.

Everything about the current him was subdued, camouflaging himself with his surroundings.

Malik wasn’t an idiot—he avoided the larger, brighter mushrooms.

He’d read a few mentions of them in Rafiq’s Grimoire.

Rocs.

Those glowing towers were their homes.

And they weren’t the kind of company he was in the mood for.

Hours passed as he wound his way through the maze of fungi, their stalks so thick they blotted out the already dim sky.

Their sheer size was truly ridiculous—each one could’ve supported a whole town if someone had the guts to try.

But, as wonderous as they were, Malik didn’t have much longer to dwell on them.

Because... finally, he found it.

The spot. The area marked in his mind.

A small clearing tucked beneath the canopy of an enormous mushroom.

Its cap was so wide it felt like standing under the shadow of a mountain.

At first glance, it seemed empty.

Just another stretch of damp earth.

But as he circled the area, he spotted them:

Small, hidden tents clustered together under the mushroom’s protective cover.

They were tucked so neatly into the base of the stalk that someone less observant might’ve walked right past them.

’I’ve found you...’

His lips curled into a faint smile, a face he hadn’t shown ever since that accursed day.

’And now, I’ll end you.’

Malik’s first thought was to charge in, blade swinging, and tear them all apart.

The thought of it—the thrill of slaughtering those he deemed less than human, fulfilling his revenge, cleaning up what needed to be cleaned—buzzed beneath his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

But he stopped himself.

Barely.

Rushing in without a plan was a good way to end up dead.

Even if he’d survive, it was the kind of stupidity he wouldn’t stand for.

He forced a slow, deep breath, the air cold against his lungs, and made himself calm down.

From the cover of a relatively small stalk, Malik crouched low and watched the camp.

There were about two dozen people, maybe more, moving in and out of the tents.

Most were rough-looking men armed with swords, axes, spears, daggers, or crossbows.

Their movements were lazy, confident—the kind of arrogance that came from thinking no one would dare cross them out here.

Or at least a belief that those who might ’visit’ them were too weak to bother with.

Then Malik saw the cages.

His eyes narrowed as he spotted them, tucked behind the tents and partially obscured by a pile of supplies.

Metal bars, rusted but sturdy, holding girls inside.

From his angle, he couldn’t see how many there were or what condition they were in, but the sight was enough to make his blood boil.

"Slavers."

He muttered under his breath, the word dripping with disdain.

Of course, it had to be slavers. Smugglers, too, judging by the crates stacked near the tents.

Probably part of a larger ring, using the dense Ghabeh as their base of operations.

Perfect cover—remote, a little dangerous, and hard to track.

’...Wait.’

Malik’s mind worked quickly, piecing things together.

’That snake bastard...’

Rafiq’s arrival at Althawul made a lot more sense now.

His idiot roommates back at the inn must’ve ratted him out to these bastards, either out of desperation or sheer stupidity.

And these slavers, smug as ever, sent someone over to see what was what.

One guy, though. Just one.

’That means they didn’t know Sinbad and Huda were Al-Sayf.’

If they had, Malik doubted they’d have sent a single scout.

No, they’d have come in force, the whole group armed to the teeth.

"Fucking bastards."

Malik, ignoring his rising urge for aimless violence, spent hours watching them, memorizing their movements, their routines.

One man stood out—a scrawny figure who seemed to be in charge.

He barked orders at the others, his voice carrying across the camp.

The rest of them didn’t seem particularly disciplined, lounging around or drinking from flasks when they weren’t on watch.

Sloppy.

They’d been out here too long.

Think they were untouchable.

They were wrong.

So very wrong.

’...Alright, that’s enough.’

Satisfied with his findings, he stood up and began to move.

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Malik crept along the edge of the clearing, circling wide until he neared a man standing by himself on the camp’s outskirts.

The guy was a scruffy-looking type, leaning on his planeted spear while staring off into the distance.

Easy pickings.

Malik approached slowly, his shamshir hidden at his side.

When he was close enough, he called out:

"Hey, brother. You gotta minute?"

The man turned, startled, yanking the spear out of the ground.

"What—who the hell are you?"

Malik kept walking, closing the distance.

"I’m lost. Need some help."

The man’s expression shifted from confusion to anger.

"Get the hell out of here! Do you even know where you are?!"

Malik didn’t respond, though his mind couldn’t help but quip:

’Didn’t you just hear that I was lost? Dumbass.’

He just kept walking, his eyes locked on the man’s.

"DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!"

The man shouted, raising his spear and pointing it at him.

Malik chuckled, a low, dangerous sound.

"Maybe."

In one fluid motion, his blade lashed out.

It caught the man’s neck, slicing it clean from one end to the next.

His head slid off and hit the ground before he even realized what had happened.

"One."